


Contractual Obligations

by gritkitty, Nestra



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Escorts, BAMF Alex Manes, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Gay Character, Caretaking, Consensual Sex, Disability, Enthusiastic Consent, Injury Recovery, M/M, Siblings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 118,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28835190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritkitty/pseuds/gritkitty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: Michael needs to get to Roswell. After he grew up in the foster system, with no family to tie him to New Mexico, he left it behind without a second thought. But when he comes across a piece of mysterious multi-colored glass, he has to trace it back to Roswell’s UFO Emporium, no matter what it takes.The concept is simple. The contract is not. After Alex's injury in Iraq, his father forces him to return to Roswell to recover with the assistance of a Companion. And unless Alex selects a Companion of his own, Jesse will do it for him.This story is complete and will update Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 660
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Private Property](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753766) by [poisonivory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory). 



> Nestra: This story was born a few weeks into the pandemic when grit kitty and I were looking for a distraction and I started telling her about this AU idea I had. Nine months later...there's a metaphor to be had here.
> 
> grit kitty: Nestra made me do it, but I wanted to, so it all worked out.
> 
> Endless thanks to our beta readers, who persevered through a particularly bonkers time in all of our lives: Celli, shrift, and Lambourn.

The concept was simple. The contract was not. Alex wanted nothing to do with either, but as soon as he returned from PT, a smartly dressed woman entered his hospital room, introduced herself as a representative from Solon Companion Company, and informed him that he had been given a Companion. 

The aftermath of physical therapy sank him into his bed where he wanted nothing more than for the nurse to arrive with his meds. He asked the woman to repeat herself, and he still didn’t know what to make of her. He asked, “Is this a joke?” 

“Not at all,” the representative assured him. “A benefactor has sponsored your two-year Gift Contract for a Companion.”

“I have no interest in a Companion--” Alex began, but the representative overruled his protest and laid out the details crisply, saying, “You can refuse if you prefer, but since this is a Gift Contract, I am required to inform you of the basic terms of service to ensure you make an informed decision.” 

“Who’s paying for it?” 

“The Sponsor wishes to remain anonymous.” 

The woman read aloud in a no-nonsense midwest accent from a coil-bound document. Her energy was exhausting. Alex tried again. “Look, just show me which box to check,” he said, and she leveled a cool look over the binder to repeat, “I am required to inform you of the basic terms of service verbally. Then you can initial the boxes to indicate that you understand each point. Then you can check the box.

“The Sponsor is financially responsible for the housing, feeding, and healthcare of the Companion in an OSHA-compliant environment as well as the financial package negotiated with the Companion. The Patron is required to comply with Program guidelines regarding interaction and safety of their Companion. The Companion is required to perform his, her, or their duties as outlined in the contract for the duration negotiated with the Patron. Should the Companion default…”

The legalise droned on as Alex worked through who would give him a Companion. A _Companion_. He didn’t know anyone rich enough to afford a Companion contract, and the people who cared about him knew he wouldn’t want a Companion in the first place. A headache began to blossom in the back of Alex’s skull, not enough to compete with the grinding pain where his ankle used to be but enough to add to his general misery, and he missed the morphine drip. He missed it.

She listed services expected of a Companion to “ensure the comfort of the Patron,” and as she recited basic housework chores and menial tasks, Alex faded out again until she gave a dry cough and said, “This contract does include the Intimacy Clause, which requires that, should you accept the contract, you must complete an online training regarding the comfort of and appropriate behavior towards the Companion during intimate relations.” 

“Intimate… Sex?” he said, appalled. 

“Any intimate contact, including personal grooming, massages, hand-holding and embraces appropriate to public romantic outings, and yes. Sex,” she explained calmly. “Do you understand the nature of the service available to you through this contract?” 

Contractual sex was shocking enough, but personal grooming? Hand-holding? The entire process was surreal and left him at a loss. Mortified, he answered the question. “Yes.” 

“Do you understand that, under the terms of the contract, your responsibility is to supply approved housing and a minimum of two meals daily for the Companion, and that because this contract is a gift, the Sponsor is responsible for those expenses as well as the comprehensive financial care of the Companion including healthcare, cell phone plan, a general per diem to cover sundries, and any additional financial obligations of the Companion?” 

“Room and board, not my dime,” he said tightly. “Got it.” 

“Then initial here.” She leaned forward from her perch at the edge of the plastic chair and placed the binder on the hospital table over Alex’s lap before she offered her pen. The pen was the same burnished dun color as her pantsuit. “And here. And here. Here.” She flipped through the pages. “Here, here, and here.” 

He initialed them all, and then settled into the pillows stacked behind him, willing his skull to stop pounding. Failing.

“Hold on, Captain. This is the part you’ve been waiting for.” The woman--Laura Runnels, Senior Program Representative, according to her laminated ID badge--flipped through to the end of the document. “Last question. Do you accept or decline this gift of Companion service?” 

“I don’t want it,” he said, then added, “Decline,” to clarify his point.

Runnels paused a moment. The prim line of her mouth softened. “Gift Contracts aren’t common, and frankly, yours is an unusual case, but there are Companions who could also serve as a home health aide. With your own personal caregiver, you could leave the hospital sooner and get back to your family. You could be home for the holidays.” 

When asked, Alex told people he was from New Mexico, and if the conversation called for it, he’d say that Roswell was his hometown. He had roots there. Not the knee-jerk filial devotion his father had for all the Manes men who came before them, but for the school friends who grew up with him and helped him discover what kind of person he was, just as he helped them. Alex avoided his father when he returned to Roswell, but he visited as often as he could to catch up with Maria Deluca, Rosa Ortecho, and sometimes Liz, Rosa’s sister, if she was in town the same time he was. Those visits he spent in a cheap hotel or sleeping on Maria’s couch felt more like home than the house where he spent his childhood. 

Alex considered his brothers. They were family, but he didn’t want to get back to them for the holidays. He and Flint hadn’t spoken since Clay’s wedding, which continued a long and dedicated estrangement begun in high school. Gregory kept busy with his own life as a teacher since his four years with the Navy ended and he moved to the reservation. Clay was Air Force, stationed at Keesler in Biloxi, where he lived with his wife and new baby. Alex had hoped to recuperate there, but when Alex called Clay the day after arriving at Walter Reed, Clay had hesitated. “You know I’d love you here but the baby just turned two months old and Sherise, she’s--she’s good, but. It’s a struggle, sometimes, with moms. Right after.” 

And Alex had said, “No, of course I understand.” 

His mother, Melinda, called, and if he asked, she would take him in. Alex and Melinda had reconnected when he started college classes after transferring to Robins AFB and she lived in Macon, Georgia. She had since moved to Atlanta, and even if she had more space than a one-bedroom condo, she and Alex were more cordial than close, and too stubborn and independent in exactly the same ways. Living with her would be complicated at best, so he assured her he was alive and mending, and didn’t ask for a place to stay. 

Which left him with his father. Alex called him Dad ironically, but the nursing staff at Landstuhl saw no reason not to put Master Sergeant Jesse Manes through to his battle-injured son. “I want you home, son,” Jesse had said, as if Alex had a choice. Alex had hung up.

Alex did have a choice. The hospital and eventually some lonely digs at Scott Air Force Base, or off to his father’s house in Roswell with a Companion. 

“No thanks.” Shifting forward to reach the document, his brain tried to move the leg he no longer had and ignited with pain. “Where do I sign?” 

*

Alex dipped lightly into sleep in the hour before lunch, which, with its dose of pain pills, couldn’t come soon enough. When his food finally arrived, a man in fatigues followed the cart into his room. 

“Oh my god,” Alex said, shocked again but this time happily. “OZ?”

“Arr, matey, if I’d known it was lunchtime, I’d’ve brought you some Long John Silver.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” said Alex, grinning. “I thought you were…” He shook his head, annoyed that he couldn’t remember where his former CO was stationed. He’d known Orozco for years and deployed with him for Alex’s second tour of Iraq, where Orozco had nominated Alex for a medal. He didn’t get the medal, but the nomination got the both of them a fancy dinner at a senator’s house, which, because Jesse Manes also attended, Alex enjoyed far less than Orozco had.

“What, dead? In jail?” 

The orderly placed Alex’s lunch on his table and left. 

“You’re not cool enough to go to jail. No, I thought you were...overseas?” He remembered little from the first few days after the IED, but Orozco’s voice sparked a flick of memory. “I could have sworn you came to see me before I was transported to Landstuhl.” 

“Iraq? In your dreams. Once is enough,” he said, “except for psychos like you. Nah, I’m TDY here in D.C., but then it’s back to Keesler. Clay says hi, by the way.” 

“Keesler, yeah, no, right. I knew that.” Alex plucked at the edge of his blanket under the table, his face warm. In the days after the attack, he’d been concussed, doped up, despairing, and still not out of the woods, but in one of his moments of clarity, he recognized Orozco’s voice and a glimpse of his face. They were probably a hallucination, a shredded recollection gone haywire. He still wasn’t easy with his brain’s output. All the doctors told him _it’s only been a couple weeks; give it time_. “My dreams have been high-def fucked-up.” 

“You mean nightmares, if I was in them.” Orozco gripped the side rail of Alex’s bed. “They taking care of you?” 

The day nurse, Craig, knocked on the door as he came through. He was former Army, calm, deadpan, and efficient, and Alex liked him, or maybe it was a Pavlovian response to the meds he brought. Craig nudged his way to the bed with a dixie cup. “Look at me, running on time,” he said. He handed over the cup and turned to fill the graduated water cup at the edge of the table. 

“You taking good care of ET for us?” said Orozco.

“ET?” 

“He’s from Roswell.” 

“ET from Roswell, huh?” Craig handed over the cup without a reaction. “That’s low-hanging fruit.” 

“Thank you!” Alex said to Craig. The cup rattled as he tossed back the pills and added, “He’s the only asshole who calls me that.” 

Craig chuckled, still straight-faced, and left. 

Orozco pulled the plastic-bucket chair close and sat. “He’s a ray of sunshine.” 

“He brings me drugs. He’s my favorite person here.” 

“So it’s not drugs, but I got something for you.” 

“I don’t see flowers.” 

“I could’ve gone with a cute little plushie, but I went with this instead.” Orozco drew a smart phone from his breast pocket and handed it to Alex.

“Oh, man, you didn’t have to do this.” Alex examined it. Small, a Samsung, nothing exciting but it was new and shiny. 

“Yeah, I did. I’d’ve brought you a PlayStation if I could, but at least you can play Candy Crush and maybe,” he said, “call your family. Call a friend or two. It’s pre-paid, so you can use it right now.” 

“I’d say I can’t take this, but.” 

“Fuck off. You’d do the same and you know it so don’t get all whatever. You’ll need this.” Orozco pulled a charging cord from his other pocket. 

“Thanks, I really appreciate this.” 

“Just forget it already. How long until they boot you out?” 

“Too long. Not long enough. I don’t know.” He hesitated. “I got a weird offer this morning.” 

Orozco looked at him expectantly. “Dude. You can’t leave it there.” 

“Someone from a Companion company showed up and just handed me a contract.” 

“No fucking way. You got a Companion? You?” 

“I turned it down,” Alex replied, fatigue hitting him again, all at once. “Why would I want that kind of complication?”

“Why wouldn’t you want a hot personal assistant who’s guaranteed to be gorgeous and sucks dick? Who could totally be your own private nurse? _Who sucks dick_. Are you fucking nuts?” 

“Someone who sucks dick because they have to? C’mon. They’re at your beck and call, and it’s not just degrading, it’s...weird.” He and OZ had deployed together, and they had each other’s backs, but it was a relationship based on their service. Alex had never come out to OZ and had no plans to. He poked at the cover of his lunch plate enough to peek under. Pasta, canned green beans, a roll. He lowered the cover. 

“Says the airman to the other airman,” Orozco said. “No one’s holding a gun to their head. They sign up because it’s an opportunity. Just like enlisting.” 

“Just like everyone who enlists has a choice, right?” 

“This is about to become a deeply philosophical debate, isn’t it. I’ll have an opinion, you’ll judge the fuck out of my opinion, and we’ll drink until we forget what the fuck we were talking about before someone starts swinging.”

Alex chuckled. “If only. Drinking myself blind isn’t an option at the moment.” 

“You’ll get there,” he said, but his smile looked like an effort. He stood up. “Look, I should let you eat.” 

“Hey, I don’t mean to chase you off. Come by in the afternoon sometime. I promise I whine less then.” 

“Shut the fuck up. I accepted that you’re an asshole a long time ago and I still put up with you. But,” he said, and Alex heard the regret, “I’m about to bounce back to Biloxi next week.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“I’m heading home for Christmas.” His family was from Albuquerque. “I’ll catch up with you in Roswell.” 

*

A mild buzz bumped Alex from a light doze. He had spent the early afternoon setting up his new phone, installing apps and being flooded by the posts and DMs wishing him well; texting the numbers he remembered--Clay’s, Maria’s, Naveed’s--and asking for the numbers he couldn’t; signing into his Gmail. He plunged into sleep instead of dealing with the hundreds of unread emails and woke later feeling hungry, clear-headed, and having enough energy to answer his mother’s email and even surf around social media, but also lazy enough to let his hands drop and his thoughts fade into twilight. Now the room was dim, the hospital hushed. His phone buzzed again, and the caller ID flashed a name: Manes, Gregory. “Hey,” Alex said, “you do know it’s almost midnight on the east coast, right?” 

“But you answered, so it can’t be too late. And since you did answer, I guess you’re still alive.” 

“Since you called, I guess you are, too.” 

“Clay had to give me your new number.” The edge in Greg’s voice wasn’t humor. “I thought it was your leg that got blown off. I called the hospital in Germany. You couldn’t send a text?” 

“I just got the phone today, give me a break. I appreciated the message.” He had. “It was easier to let Clay give reports when it all happened.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to get news about you through Clay.” Greg's tone lost its brittleness. “You worried me, you little shit.” 

“I, uh--” Alex hated how guilt filled his throat like he was twelve and trying to show his brothers that he didn’t need to be coddled, that he could take it.

“So you’re stateside now,” Greg talked over Alex’s hesitation. “Getting waited on hand and foot. Feeling better, I hope. Is it too soon to make Hopalong jokes?” 

“Go for it. My old CO already inflicted his shitty humor on me this morning. And I feel great until the drugs wear off. Fortunately, they keep supplying more, so yeah, I’m good.” 

Greg’s chuckle brought back the secret humor of brotherhood. Into the following quiet Alex said, “Now you got my number. No need to go through Clay.” 

“That’ll save time. Clay is not brief when he’s talking about Andy.” 

“I kept up on Facebook when I could. Lots of photos. Cute kid.” Alex couldn’t resent Clay for putting his wife and child first.

“He texts them to me. So many photos of the latest Manes man.” 

_Manes man._ The phrase encapsulated decades of paternal standards no child could meet. He heard the phrase in Jesse’s voice, and it flung him to the last time Jesse had punished him for failing to rise to those standards, a night when Jesse caught Alex with a boy in his car after prom. It was the last time his father laid hands on him, and the worst. Alex swallowed against the helpless rage as potent now as in the moment then. He inhaled sharply and held his breath. Exhaled slowly. Tucked it away. Carried on and said, “Way to ruin the moment.” 

“Oh, there was a moment?” Greg was joking, but he didn’t know what happened that night in high school. Alex never told him.

“Barely.”

Greg chuckled again because for him this was a soft moment, and rare, reaching out to Alex. The conversation petered out. Greg said he would call, Alex said he would give updates, and they both knew they wouldn’t as they hung up.

* * *

**Roswell, June 1997**

The phone rang at 5:48 PM.

“I’ll get it!” Alex shouted. He scrambled up from his Legos, skidded down the hall to the phone, and scooped up the handset. “Hello, this is the Manes residence.” He lisped because of a missing front tooth. A man asked for his father by his rank. _Not Mom._ Enthusiasm gone, Alex said, “Please hold on, sir.” 

He carried the handset to his father’s office door, which was open, and knocked on the door jamb. 

Without looking up from the papers on his desk, Jesse said, “Come in.” 

“Telephone for you, sir.” 

“Bring it here.” Only when given permission did Alex cross the threshold. Into the phone Jesse said, “Manes.” For a long moment he said nothing, and then, “Did you exclude all terrestrial signal traffic?” Alex could hear the man’s voice, tinny and excited, “We think it’s the real goddamn deal, sir!”

Alex shifted on his feet. He sensed he should absolutely not listen in on his father’s work, but at the same time he knew not to move until dismissed. Jesse told the man, “Start the clock.” Finally his eyes swiveled to Alex, who continued to stand there, waiting. “Tell your brothers to start dinner without me. Close the door on your way out.” As Alex closed the door, Jesse said to the phone, “No. I’ll assess before I call the Senator.” 

Alex went to the kitchen to tell Gregory. Gregory was poking at potatoes boiling in a pot and looking worried. “Dad said to start eating without him.” 

“Oh thank god.” Gregory set the fork down. 

“What’s wrong?”

“The potatoes won’t be done in time for six.” 

Alex sighed out a little _oooo_. Food late to the table was bad. 

Flint bounced into the kitchen, took a sniff and made a face. “Meatloaf? God, I’m sick of meatloaf. Why can’t we have good food? The Gibbons have a Companion, and she cooks lasagna. They have dessert every night.” 

“Ask Dad why we can’t get a Companion from the Program since Mom’s gone,” retorted Gregory. “Go on. I dare you.” Flint scowled and said nothing. “I thought so. Shut your mouth or learn how to cook.” 

“Can a Companion do more than cook?” asked Alex. He missed how his clothes used to smell when Mom did the laundry, and how she checked his take-home worksheets, and how sometimes, when Dad wasn’t looking, she would lay her hand on his hair and caress the back of his head.

“Dad says Companions are whores,” said Flint. Clay came in through the kitchen door just then and said, “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“They’re not whores,” said Gregory. 

“What’s a whore?” asked Alex. He had heard it before, and from context could tell it was a very bad word about women. 

“Where the hell do you hear this kind of shit?” Clay frowned at Flint. 

“Oh my god, would you all shut up! And stop teaching Alex words that’ll get him slapped.” 

Fifteen minutes later, Jesse emerged from the back hall, dressed out in fatigues. He passed through the kitchen where Alex and his brothers ate dinner that had just hit the table, collecting his keys and hat and the mobile phone that they were forbidden to touch. “I have to work. Gregory, you’re in charge. Who cooked?” 

Gregory said, “I did.” 

“Clay and Alex, you’re on dish duty.” 

“When will you be back?” asked Gregory. 

Jesse pinned him with a pale stare. “Gregory. You’re in charge.” 

“Yessir.” 

Just before he left, Jesse said, “You’ve got the list of emergency contacts. Mind your brother.” 

All four boys said, “Yessir.”

* * *

Jesse Manes darkened the open doorway of Alex’s hospital room, a flat cutout of a man just as menacing in his stillness now as in the years of Alex’s childhood after Melinda Manes demanded a divorce and left. He said nothing, but his presence was the static grinding over a car radio, ruining the music. 

He paused at the threshold, staring at Alex but saying nothing. The room shrank, the light dulled. Even the usual clatter and hustle of mealtime faded, indistinct and gray. Then Jesse rapped his knuckles against the jamb and stepped inside. He stationed himself at the end of the bed. His gaze flicked about the room, Alex, the whiteboard on the wall, the chart hanging from the foot railing. Finally he said, “You look well.” 

For a long moment Alex regarded his father silently, then: “You flew across the country to make that observation?” 

“I can’t check on my youngest son in his time of need?” 

Alex scoffed. “You missed that flight a long time ago, Dad. What do you want?” 

“I just want you well.”

“Good thing I’m in a hospital then.” 

“You’d do better at home.”

“I don’t have a home.” And whoops, he had not meant to say that. He’d been stationed at Scott Air Force Base before his deployment, but he’d given up his lease and shipped a few things to Biloxi for Clay to store in his big house because Alex hadn’t been sure where he would land once his deployment was over, but he’d hoped for more training, maybe at Keesler. 

“Roswell’s your home.” 

“I’m stationed at Scott, and that’s where I’m going once I get out of here. I’ve been pining for Ted Drews,” he added flippantly. Jesse’s lip curled, and Alex said, “It’s frozen custard. Worth the drive to St. Louis. I consider it a perk.”

“Your platoon’s still deployed, so what will you do once you get there? Just hang out with the rear-ech and coast until your time’s up?” 

Buried in the insult was the certainty with which Jesse spoke about Alex’s continued service, even if he quit at the end of his enlistment, as if the loss of a leg had no bearing on his ability to carry on. It was a backhanded slap of a compliment and the closest thing to sincere pride that he had ever expressed for Alex. He dropped the sarcasm. “I have time to think about it before I decide.” 

“I imagine you do,” Jesse said, “but you should consider this now.” He laid one of two folders on the bed. “Go on.” Alex opened the folder on his lap as Jesse continued. “This is a temporary duty order that will bring you back to Roswell.” 

Alex flicked through the papers in the first folder. There was a one-line description of the duty: Update digital security at a secure facility in Roswell. Walker Air Force Base wasn’t mentioned, which lent the orders even less credibility. “That’s it? Update security?” He flipped through again. “Who issued this?” He didn’t recognize the name. “This is bullshit.” 

“It’s legitimate and a done deal. The real details are classified until you report for duty, which I expect you to as soon as you’re cleared by the PEB--and they will clear you. This,” he continued, “is a list of Companions.” Jesse slid several sheets of paper from the second folder and laid them on top of the pages Alex was looking at. “Pick one. A pretty young woman with soft hands who can make your recovery--” he uttered a dry little cough “--more bearable. She’ll meet us in Roswell to start your rehabilitation.” 

“Excuse me, what?” 

“It’s not conventional, but it is a viable option to get you out of the hospital sooner, so, you will sign the contract, you will take the Companion, and you will come home. To Roswell.” 

Alex hadn’t seen Jesse in person since Clay’s wedding; he had, in fact, worked hard to see him as infrequently as possible. Roswell? _Not while you’re living there-- How can you think I would even consider-- Stop calling me_ son _like you’re jerking a leash--_ Mostly his body wailed for sleep, for his brain to shut the fuck down already, for his missing ankle to stop telling his mind that it hurt.

“What the hell, Dad. A Companion? This is about the Program rep who showed up yesterday with a contract in hand, isn’t it.” 

“Who do you think arranged it, son?” 

“I already declined the offer.” 

“The rep will come back tomorrow, and you’ll tell them you reconsidered.” 

“Just like that, huh?” It never paid to show anger in front of Jesse when you were vulnerable, but Alex couldn’t hold back the sarcasm. 

“Exactly like that. Unless,” Jesse speculated, “you had somewhere else to go. Your list of options isn’t very long. None of your friends are in the position to help a disabled vet. Certainly not the DeLuca girl. She’s got her hands full with the bar and that mother of hers. As for the Ortechos, the smart one got out of town, and are you actually willing to share your pain pills with the other one?” 

Alex raised his head to meet Jesse’s stare directly and held still. This was an attack as violent as any beating Jesse had given, and he was just winding up. 

“Your brothers would help you,” he continued, “if they could. But Flint is working hard for me already. Gregory lives in a dump on the reservation and works two jobs. He’s barely got enough space and time for himself, let alone take care of you. And Clay has a duty to raise the next generation of Manes men. It’s not as dangerous as the work he did for me, but parenthood isn’t without risk. New mothers and their babies are fragile creatures.” 

_Manes men._ “You threatened them. You threatened them both. Greg and Clay,” Alex said, stunned, and then furious, “You threatened Clay’s wife and baby?” 

“I don’t threaten. I state facts. And the facts are that you are injured, weak, and need help, but you have nowhere to go and no one who can help you, except for me.” 

Jesse was wrong: Alex was not without resources, though he was at a disadvantage until he regained his mobility. But he said nothing, because how could he refute threats, innuendo, and facts without data? His face and his heart were stones to hide the fear he had for his friends, for himself, as Jesse left without another word.

*

Laura Runnels, SPR, arrived the next morning, brimming with satisfaction. “I’m glad you reconsidered, Captain.” 

“I haven’t reconsidered, actually,” said Alex, “but here we are.” He had verified the TDY orders: they were listed online on his account, and the calls he made to Scott AFB and up the chain of command confirmed it. “I’m not comfortable with the list I was offered yesterday. Can you show me other options?” 

Runnels scooted the chair closer and tilted her tablet. The screen displayed his profile: identification, demographics, bitch-faced photo unsmiling in uniform. Below that, the same list of candidates his father showed him yesterday. They were all smiling young women, all white, mostly blonde.

“You can change your parameters,” she said. “Is there a particular look you prefer better? Perhaps another skill-set?” 

“I did not choose the parameters.” 

Runnels looked up from the tablet. “You didn’t? Who did?” 

“You said it was a gift. Does it matter?” 

“Gift or not, a Patron must select the Companion, and since you’re awake, aware, and able to make your own medical decisions, it matters a great deal. If you were unable to make medical decisions for yourself, it would fall to a qualified person that you designate to make such decisions on your behalf, or your next-of-kin. But you are awake, aware, and absolutely able to make your own decisions, and therefore it is _by law_ up to you to choose your Companion,” she explained. Alex was starting to warm up to Runnels. “Here are the fields. Click the green box next to a category to select it or the red to exclude it.” 

Alex tugged the tablet from Runnels, whose mouth pursed. He reset the parameters and all available candidates filled the screen. The results still included beautiful people in their 20s, but also a few in their 30s and 40s. There were people of different sizes and with different skills. Black, Latino, Asian, white. The majority were women, about a third of the entries were men, and a very few candidates had marked nonbinary or other designation for gender. Alex excluded _female_ from the results, which returned hundreds instead of thousands of candidates. The top profile was of a twenty-four year old Companion who had recently graduated culinary school. His smile was cheerful and his forearms looked brawny enough to manhandle Alex as needed. He was beautiful and black and a man. 

“He’ll do.” 

“He’s based in South Carolina and requested a placement on the east coast,” Runnels said. Her fingers twitched as if she wanted the tablet back. “You do have to select for some parameters. Start with location. Your town. Then move out from there. You should consider excluding candidates without caregiving training or experience.” 

Alex dutifully curated the list. Roswell returned no matches. Albuquerque returned no matches. El Paso returned no matches. Another headache threatened. “There’s got to be someone out there who can do the job.” 

“None willing to relocate, apparently, though some might for a renegotiated financial package. You may have to open more options.” 

He opened all the parameters but limited the list to those willing to relocate. A dozen profiles opened. Amid the group of beautiful men, Alex was instantly drawn to a profile picture. He pointed to the fourth one from the top. “Him.” 

Runnels pulled the tablet from him. “Oh, no, he won’t do.”

“Why?”

“He has no education or”--her eyes darted over the text--”any appropriate skills.” 

“I don’t need an actual nurse.” 

"Companions recruited by Solon Companion Company are highly skilled individuals specifically trained by the Company to provide companionship, usually in high society and often intimate. He's certainly not the usual candidate to be contracted as such a Companion." 

"Well, he’s on the list, so he must be available." 

"Yes, of course, it's your right to choose a Companion from the general pool of recruits, but you should know that there are applicants who check as many positions as possible, to increase their likelihood of securing any contract. People who decide to go that route are rarely chosen to be the kind of skilled Companion enrolled by Solon Companion Company. Candidates like this usually find opportunities more in keeping with general labor positions, with companies who specialize in filling unskilled positions."

"So you're saying he's desperate."

She tilted her head reluctantly. "Most likely. I’m sure he’s physically able to help with cooking and bathing, transportation and running errands, but he has no domestic or medical training. This candidate can’t help with the more technical aspects of your personal care.” 

“I don’t need help with my personal care.” No, what he needed was to plan his battles. He glanced at the profile again. Male. White. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Clean background check. Same age as Alex. But the man’s hair was curly and a little flyaway. His eyes were a lighter shade of brown and even in the photo had depth. His smile was polite but had a crook that suggested an attitude. And though he lacked the polish of the other candidates, he was hot, objectively. Alex could use him to drive Jesse Manes up the goddamn wall.

“Are you entirely sure?” 

“Yes. I want him.” Alex selected the profile and then handed the tablet back. “Michael Guerin.”


	2. Chapter 2

Michael heard the guy before he saw him--hell, probably the whole flea market could hear him, with his speaker setup. Even from three rows away, where he’d finally found the throttle cable he needed for the ‘84 Mustang he was restoring, he couldn’t escape Grant Green and his podcast, “The Gravity of It All.” What the hell the guy was doing in Amarillo, he had no idea, other than tormenting the indoor market’s buyers and sellers.

He exchanged an eyeroll with Felipe as he handed over the cash to the accompaniment of Green droning on and on about the Illuminati. But it wasn’t until he was turning to head back to the parking lot that he heard Green warming to his true topic.

“Aliens, folks! They’re here, and they are working to undermine us in every way you can think of. Fluoride in the water! Subliminal messages in popular music! Chemtrails releasing drugs into the air that make you _gullible_ and _complacent_!”

His stomach dropped, and he had to take a few breaths to calm himself. The guy was just a weirdo spouting off his load of bullshit to a captive audience. Still, he’d feel better if he checked him out, at least from a distance. It sounded like he was near the pupusa food stand, and that was a good place to get a decent, cheap meal.

Michael ordered one stuffed with cheese and one with chicharrónes and walked slowly up the row while he ate. Green was still shouting, now about Big Pharma. As Michael got closer, he saw Green’s table, covered from end to end with what looked like junk. Dirty rocks that the guy was trying to pass off as alien fossils, twisted pieces of metal, a cheap electrical device that would, he claimed, prevent aliens from influencing your mind.

Michael wandered aimlessly past the table twice, almost convinced that Green was a run-of-the-mill crackpot. Green had drawn some poor sucker into his orbit, and the woman had a faux-polite, somewhat pained expression on her face, clearly waiting for a pause so she could make an excuse and walk away.

Then Green reached below the table and pulled out a piece of starshine.

It iridesced, so that the dominant color changed from moment to moment. Purple, green, yellow. The blue of the night sky, the pink of a Santa Fe sunrise, gold symbols rising to the surface. He thought it was maybe the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And it--it called to him. It wanted him closer, wanted his hand to touch that slick-looking surface.

It had to be alien in origin. Where had it come from? And why the hell did a guy like Grant Green have it? He edged closer to the table and picked up a tri-fold pamphlet for the “UFO Emporium” in Roswell, New Mexico.

Roswell. Of course.

Michael had only the vaguest memories of waking up, coming out of his pod with two other children around his age. They’d been taken to a foster home, but Michael was almost immediately sent to another facility in Albuquerque, and that was the last time he saw them before they died.

He bounced around New Mexico for ten years in foster care, and as soon as he aged out of the system, he headed far away from the crash site. No point in going back without anyone there waiting for him, and the last thing he needed was for someone to catch him using his telekinesis and think “alien.”

But now he wondered what he’d left behind in Roswell.

The woman was in the final stages of her escape, so Michael eased up to the table, nonchalant like he was just curious to see what Green had laid out.

“Hey,” he said to Green as soon as he caught his eye.

Green pinned that manic gaze on him. “Are you interested in learning the truth about what happened in Roswell in 1947?”

“Definitely,” Michael said, nodding firmly. “I am very interested in that.”

“I see you’ve got a pamphlet.”

“Yeah, I just picked it up. You work at this UFO Emporium?”

“I own it,” Green said, puffing his chest. “Family business since 1978. We’re celebrating our 40th anniversary next year, which is why we’re currently closed for remodeling.”

“Well, you’ve got some really interesting stuff here.” Michael poked at the anti-alien machine. As far as he could tell by looking at it, it was a closed circuit that did nothing except light up several LEDs.

“Genuine alien artifacts, my friend. Looking to buy, sell, or trade, if you’ve got anything. We’re clearing out some old stuff from the collection, and I’ve found a few showstoppers that’ll debut at the grand re-opening.”

“Is that one of them?” Michael asked, nodding at the iridescent shard.

“You like this, huh?” Green caressed it in a way that Michael found creepy but also kind of sympathized with. “It’s amazing. It’s an alien material, and my analysis confirms that it was part of the ship’s hull. We’ve got more pieces in the collection, but this is one of the biggest. It’s all been found out in the desert where the crash happened.”

Michael froze, hoping to camouflage his reaction. More of that magic alien material, whatever it actually was. And probably even more of it waiting to be found. In Roswell.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

Green hesitated for a moment, then passed it over. “Sure, take a gander.”

Michael barely heard Green’s response, because as soon as he had the shard in his hand, that call he’d heard got stronger. It didn’t make any sense. There was no way an inanimate object was communicating with him--except, he wasn’t entirely convinced it was inanimate. He thought the colors and symbols flashed a little brighter when he smoothed a finger over them. As if they responded to his touch.

The colors turned into a gentle heat that suffused him, like bringing circulation to cold extremities that tingled and hurt as they warmed. Then the heat became emotions, still spreading through him. _Contentment security love belonging._ He saw without seeing. Flashes of blond hair and a kind smile. A gentle hand. A presence in his mind, communication beyond words.

The shard’s touch faded, and he prepared to be sad when it was gone, but it left behind the comfort of those feelings, muted now like old memories.

“I’ll take that back,” Green said, interrupting his reverie.

Staring silently at it for those long seconds hadn’t done a great job covering his interest. When he looked back up, Green had a suspicious light in his eyes.

“Wow,” Michael said. “That’s really something. You got more stuff like this? I’ve always been into UFOs, and you know the government doesn’t tell the truth about them.”

Graham didn’t take the bait, stashing the shard back under the table with quick movements. “We’re reopening next year. You can come see the exhibits then.”

“You need volunteers? I’m good with my hands, rebuilding and rewiring stuff.”

“I’m sure you can understand that we have to maintain a high level of secrecy.”

“Hey, I’m just a believer,” Michael said, trying to pull his vocabulary from every stupid conspiracy-laden conversation he’d overheard in bars or garages. “I figure you guys are a worthy cause, and I want to support you however I can.”

Graham unthawed slightly. “We are looking for new sponsors for the Emporium as part of the expansion. Our sponsorship levels are on the back of the pamphlet.”

Michael grabbed the pamphlet again and flipped it over.

_Blast off and be a part of history! With your sponsorship, the UFO Emporium can continue the quest to be the world’s leading institution for the **truth** about UFOs and aliens!_

_$0-50: Stargazer  
$51-100: Astronomer  
$101-500: Space Tourist  
$501-1,000: Astronaut  
$1,001-3,000: Little Green Man  
$3,001-5,000: Galactic Explorer  
$5,001 and above: Master of the Universe_

The various levels came with benefits: free admission, ten percent off at the gift shop, your name on a seat in the small movie theater. None of it got him what he needed: access to the Emporium and its artifacts. If there were more of these shards there, he had to see them.

“That’s great, but I really want to be a part of what you guys have going. Your mission. How about I buy into the business? Give you the cash upfront.”

On the table, Grant’s phone vibrated and started playing The X-Files theme. “I have to take this. It’s my brother. Don’t forget to come visit next summer.” Grant dismissed him and turned away, though Michael noticed he still kept an eye on the crap he had on display.

“What?” Grant said into the phone. “No, I didn’t forget, I got delayed by this guy who offered to invest in the Emporium, like we’re Apple or a Florida timeshare.”

About to give up and start planning how to steal the shard from Grant, Michael stopped in his tracks to listen.

“Yes, he offered cash. Why?”

The brother on the other end started yelling loud enough that Michael could hear him. “Are you out of your tiny mind? We can’t afford to turn down that much capital! It might save us from having to take out another loan.”

Grant spun around to look for Michael.

“Still want to invest in a national treasure?”

It was preposterous. Michael had never had more than a thousand bucks in savings. He’d never known anyone who had money they could invest. He’d never worked for anyone who had that much money.

“Yes,” Michael said immediately. “Yes, I do.”

*

Standing in his 800-square-foot apartment, contemplating his nearly empty refrigerator, Michael tried to imagine how he could get his hands on the cash he needed. Other than grand larceny.

No bank would loan him anything, since he had no real credit history and no collateral. Given time, maybe he could hit a couple casinos, nudge the roulette ball one way or the other, but that ran the risk of getting caught if he wasn’t incredibly careful. And he had no interest in being dragged into a back alley by casino security. Or dissected in a lab by white-coated scientists.

He opened the freezer and pulled out a bean burrito. While he waited for it to heat, questions chased themselves around in his mind.

He could move to Roswell and try to search on his own, but what was he going to do? Wander the desert and dig in random locations? Sit in a coffee shop and ask the locals strange questions? Investing in the Emporium would give him access to everything the museum had acquired over the years since the crash, and it would lend him an air of authority and respectability that a random drifter wouldn’t have.

No, he needed the money, and he needed it immediately. He decided to stop thinking about it, at least for a few hours. Time to research Roswell and the UFO Emporium.

The first hit that appeared after the Emporium’s official site was an article in the Roswell Daily Record, published a year ago when the building closed for remodeling. It provided an overview of the Emporium’s history and even had a few details about the collection’s contents. Settling in to read, he clicked on the author’s byline and opened it in a new tab, so he could check out their other articles.

This Max Evans was a pretty good writer.

* * *

**Albuquerque, October 1997**

Surrounded by mute, indifferent strangers, the silence in the boy’s head got so loud that he learned audible language to drown it out. Understanding came quickly, because these strange people were not actually mute, they just didn’t know how to speak well or clearly. They mumbled emotions or sometimes images and occasionally concepts, and by linking those crumbs of meaning with the audible gibberish they uttered, he learned quickly. It took longer to learn to speak. When he did, he asked to see the girl and boy he’d been found with. Maybe those children had audible names now, like Michael did. To find out, he would have to return to the building they were taken to after having been found wandering at night, nude and alone. 

He asked if he could go there. 

And he asked. And he asked. And he asked. And he asked. No one helped. The man and the woman who took care of him--his new _family_ \--moved him to another house that took over a day to reach in the vehicle, ran out of patience with him within weeks. When the mother started touching her stomach with a smile, yet another hard-eyed, weary woman took Michael by the arm and brought him to another _family_. 

The foster parents were completely mute, or maybe Michael had finally gone deaf himself. He didn’t make friends, he lost weight, he was listless. When he spoke aloud, he talked only of returning to the children left behind. He upset his foster parents, his teachers, his social worker. Finally Alicia, his new caseworker, said, “Michael, honey. Do you remember the crisis home where you were brought with the other children?” 

Michael nodded. 

“There was a fire after you left.” 

Michael blinked rapidly, processing. Home. Children. Fire. 

“All the other children are gone. No one stays there anymore because the building burned down. Do you understand? They’re gone, and the building is gone. You can’t go back. You wouldn’t find anyone if you did.” 

Alicia spoke with Michael’s foster mother in her office with the door closed. The silent mumblings were muddy and made no sense, and he couldn’t hear what they said aloud. That night, when he asked to go back to the home yet again, his foster mother said, “You heard what your caseworker said. They all died in the fire. There’s no reason to go back.” 

Michael never asked again. 

* * *

Five articles in, he came across one headlined: "Companions: Opportunity or Exploitation?"

_Solon Companion Company, headquartered in Albuquerque since its creation in 1982, places approximately 80% of Companions in New Mexico. SCC representatives say they provide essential services to New Mexico residents and job opportunities for people all over the country. But critics claim that the company, and the entire institution of Companionship, exploits vulnerable populations—minorities, immigrants, and the poor._

While brainstorming ideas for raising money, he'd touched on the idea of a Companion contract and instinctively recoiled. Signing himself away in exchange for a lump sum felt awfully close to prostitution. He’d spent too much time in borderline-abusive foster care situations, including a couple that had run real close to the edge of that line.

On the other hand, he was a lot more capable of protecting himself than he'd been at ten years old, and he'd never been an easy target.

He racked his brains. Did he know anyone who’d signed a contract? After a moment, he remembered hearing something from Felipe, who worked the flea market on weekends and spent the week on the night shift at the convenience store near Michael’s garage.

Felipe was happy to share what he knew for the price of a beer. His cousin had signed a contract in exchange for law school tuition at Stanford. The terms of Specialty Labor Contracts were different from Common Labor, but at least Michael could get an idea of what he was considering letting himself in for.

Daniela had done fine, graduated law school and was serving out a ten-year contract for her Patron, some rich guy who managed mutual funds, whatever that meant. But she’d told Felipe the ugly stories she’d heard. There was a reason that people looked down on Companions. Loosening government oversight of private companies made it easy for wealthy and powerful Patrons to take advantage of Companions, especially those from underprivileged backgrounds.

Or put it another way--rich assholes abused their Companions, and no one cared, because it happened to poor people.

After Felipe left, Michael ordered another beer and nursed it while he considered. A New Mexico-based company made it more likely that they'd have opportunities in Roswell, one of the reasons he'd initially dismissed becoming a Companion. Roswell contracts would also be less likely to have any special requirements.

Worst-case scenario, if his Patron turned out to be an abusive asshole, Michael could break the contract. By law, he’d be required to pay the money back immediately, but he could run for it. It wouldn’t be too hard to get a new ID under a different name, and half of his jobs had always wanted to pay him under the table.

Of course, the supposed purpose of the contract was to make sure that Patrons didn’t abuse Companions, and vice versa, with the Program enforcing compliance. But Michael didn’t place much faith in institutions created by rich people. Which was most of them.

He hadn't come up with any other option, though. And he needed that money. It couldn't hurt to visit a placement company and see what they said.

*

_Select any skills that you are willing and able to perform:  
Calendar Maintenance  
Carpenter  
Child Care  
Cook  
CPR Certification  
Driver  
Emails and Correspondence  
First Aid/Home Health Care  
Fitness Trainer  
Home Maintenance  
Housekeeping  
Masseuse  
Motor Vehicle Maintenance  
Outdoor Maintenance/Landscaping  
Personal Security  
Pet Care  
Salon stylist  
Scheduling  
Shopping/Errands  
Travel_  


Michael skimmed through the list on the tablet, checking off anything he thought he could handle. First Aid? Sure. The placement company offered free CPR certification, and he could slap a bandage on anything else. Masseuse? Couldn't be that difficult. Childcare? Sure, he'd been a child. An alien child, and he didn't remember most of his early childhood, but close enough.

He didn't have anything to list under the _Other Special Skills_ section—no way to convince anyone that he was a CPA or paralegal or anything that required specialized study. But most of the other options just needed a warm body. He'd never aspired to spend two years as some rich asshole's gardener, but he'd had worse jobs.

Michael clicked _Complete_ and flipped to the next page. Preferred location, preferred term, requested dollar amount. _Roswell_ , _up to two years_ , and _as much as possible_.

The tablet gave him the option to review before he clicked _Submit_ , but he ignored it and saved his answers, then walked up to the reception desk.

"All done?" the receptionist asked.

"Yep." He handed her the tablet and returned to his seat to wait. The placement company appeared reputable enough, located in an upscale strip mall on the other side of town from his apartment. The only other person sitting in the chairs along the wall was a young blonde woman who looked like a catalog model. He didn't have to wait long before the door behind the receptionist opened and a middle-aged African-American woman emerged.

"Michael Guerin?" She shook his hand firmly. "This way, please."

The office she led him to was small and aggressively beige, alleviated by the trailing plants spilling greenly over shelves and small pots of violets on the windowsill. She sat behind the desk and waited for Michael to sit and settle himself.

"I'm Katherine Goddard, and I'll be doing your assessment. This should take about half an hour, okay?"

"Sounds good," Michael said, shifting in the hard chair and resisting the urge to rub his palms down his thighs. He wasn't nervous, exactly, but he wished he could skip to the other side of this decision.

“Once you and I have reviewed your application, we’ll begin the matching process. When you are matched with a Patron, the Company holding their contract will take over your placement. All Companies are required to obey Program regulations for Patron and Companion safety. Just give me a minute to go over your answers, and we can get started."

She looked at her computer screen and made a few notes, punctuated by occasional _mm-hmms_. Her pen scratched on the lined paper, and Michael had to stop himself from seeing if he could read it upside-down.

"I see you have listed Roswell, New Mexico as your primary location. We can submit it that way, but I have to tell you that the chances of finding a Patron there are slim, especially for a male Companion. It's more likely you'll end up in Albuquerque or El Paso."

_Shit_. He'd thought it might be harder to get assigned to Roswell instead of a larger city, but not impossible. Albuquerque or El Paso meant at least three hours of driving each way, which would limit his visits to the Emporium. Maybe it would be doable if he got weekends free, or a day during the week. He might have to negotiate it with his Patron—provided they were willing to negotiate.

"Your skills section looks good. A few of these are a bit of a stretch--" She eyed him over her glasses, and he flushed like he'd been caught lying to one of his high school principals, "—but we should be able to make it work. There is another option you have available, but we need to discuss it before you consent. The Intimacy Clause."

"I wondered why that wasn't on the form."

"So you are aware of that option."

"Yeah," Michael said. "I've heard about it."

The Intimacy Clause didn't just approach the line between propriety and prostitution. It stepped right over it. But it also came with significantly more money, and he needed the money. Besides, sex was just sex. He liked sex, with men and women. As long as the Patron didn't want to put him in a kennel and make him wear a collar, he could handle it.

"If you opt in, you have a better chance of being placed in your primary location. But you need to be one hundred percent comfortable with that decision. Your Patron cannot force you into any intimate acts, but if you don't satisfy them on a regular basis, they are entitled to release you, and repayment would be due immediately. That condition is part of the contract."

Michael considered this. "Who decides what 'satisfied' means?"

"When you sign the contract, you agree that any disputes are settled by arbitration," Katherine said.

After a thoughtful moment, he decided. "I'm okay with it." It wasn't like he had any intention of suing his Patron or the Company if things went wrong. He still had his backup plan: run like hell. And if he was going to sell himself, might as well get top dollar.

She nodded slowly, assessing him for a moment longer, then nodded as if she’d made her own decision. A few more taps on the keyboard, and paper began spewing from a printer on a shelf behind her.

"Once you're matched with a Patron, the Company will send you an orientation packet. The contents will vary depending on the Company you're placed with, but it will include a Company-provided cell phone and credit card, information about your Patron, and an at-home STD kit you must complete and send to the lab." Her careful speech shifted into a rapid patter; she'd obviously delivered this speech over and over.

One last twinge of doubt needled at him as she continued the talk, but then he summoned the warmth of the shard under his fingers and the memories it had called forth. Whatever it took to get more information about his family or his home planet, he had to do it.

*

Amarillo to Roswell was a straight shot southwest--and it was boring as hell. Beautiful, in a desolate way, but not much to look at unless you enjoyed cows and oil pumpjacks. Occasionally a windmill farm broke up the monotony. Michael wished for a distraction, even a bend in the road, because being alone with his thoughts gave him too much time to reconsider what he’d signed up for.

After the initial orientation packet, his assigned Company had mostly communicated with him through email, but he’d had one phone call with an SCC representative to work out the logistics of his move to Roswell. They’d been prepared to fly him out, but he’d opted to drive instead, since it was four hours max. That way, he could pile his stuff in the back of the truck and not have to wait on any shipments.

The GPS on his phone nudged him to exit the highway. Whatever his reservations, there was nothing he could do about it now. Time to start figuring out how this contract was going to work.

He’d seen a very limited description of the disabled soldier he’d be working with. Alex Manes, right lower-limb amputation, just beginning his rehab. Michael would be responsible for a lot of day-to-day activities--shopping for food and other necessities, cooking, driving Alex to the hospital for physical therapy, helping him with his home exercises. Eventually, a few months in the future, Alex would get fitted with a prosthetic, which would require some trips to Albuquerque.

It could be easy, or it could suck, and most of it depended what this guy was like. Alex could make his life a living hell, whatever rules supposedly governed the contract. It didn't take much imagination to come up with worst-case scenarios. But on the other hand, Alex wouldn't be very mobile for the first couple of months.

He pulled up in front of the address SCC had sent him. Looked like a normal house on a normal, boring street. Not fancy, and not part of one of the planned subdivisions most cities had. Michael had worked on enough landscaping crews to see that the front yard consisted of native plants that wouldn’t require much maintenance. With the whole family in the military, maybe the home spent long stretches unoccupied.

He knocked twice on the front door and quickly found himself face-to-face with a man he hated on sight.

Not Alex, fortunately. The file had listed a father and brothers, and going by the age, this was the father. Well, he looked like a dead-eyed son of a bitch, and Michael distrusted him instantly.

“Michael Guerin?” He rhymed the first syllable with _where_.

“Pretty sure that’s me,” Michael said, in the flippant tone that had pissed off a long line of foster parents. He didn’t bother to correct the mispronunciation.

Manes stared at him, gaze flicking over his beat-up shoes, well-worn jeans, and the scabbed-over cut on his arm from a carburetor that had fought back. Michael felt like he was being assessed and found lacking. Then Manes opened the door wider and said, “This way.” He turned his back and walked away rather than gesturing for Michael to precede him into the house.

He followed Manes into a sparsely decorated living room. The file hadn’t mentioned anything about Alex’s mother, and judging from the room, she hadn’t been around in a while. The furniture looked nice but worn, upholstery rubbed thin in places. The color of the bland carpet matched the dirt outside.

Alex was stretched out on the sofa, sweatpants knotted below the knee of his right leg. He looked ill and exhausted, face pale and eyes pressed tightly closed.

Manes stopped a few feet away from him. “Your Companion is here,” he said, and Michael didn’t think he was imagining the ugly twist that Manes laid on the word. Why the hell was Manes upset with his son, the wounded Purple Heart recipient?

Alex’s eyes opened, and after a brief look at his father, he began pushing himself upright. Michael waited for Manes to help, and when he didn’t move, Michael stepped forward and offered an arm to brace Alex.

“Thanks,” Alex said, taking it quickly enough that it almost covered his initial hesitation.

“It’s my job,” Michael said as Alex lifted his injured leg and twisted to a sitting position. As bad as he looked, his grip was strong.

“Guerin, there’s a room prepared for you next to Alex’s,” Manes said. “It’s the second door on the right down the--”

“Actually, we’re not staying here,” Alex interrupted.

Manes’ forehead creased in confusion as Alex reached for a pair of crutches. “Excuse me?”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Alex moved to stand, and Michael prepared to brace him again, but Alex didn’t even look at him, just used the crutches to push himself upright, wedging them under his arms.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Manes snapped. “Where could you possibly go?”

“That’s not your problem.”

Manes’ face went tight with frustration. Michael assumed he was used to being obeyed by his soldiers and his sons. “You need to be here, where you have support.”

“I decide where I need to be,” Alex said. “I make my own medical decisions, just like I picked my own Companion.”

“And look at what you ended up with,” Manes spat. “You could have found someone competent, someone qualified.”

“Qualified to make me ‘comfortable,’ right?”

Michael tensed. He knew what that euphemism meant. _Our Companions provide whatever services are necessary to ensure the Patron’s comfort._ Sounded like the elder Manes expected his son to take full advantage of the Intimacy Clause.

“You’re a decorated veteran. You deserve--”

“Not like this. Not with the people you put in front of me. Guerin was _my_ choice.”

“Actually, it’s Guerin,” Michael interjected. “Rhymes with _air_. Not that it was up to me. Just the name of the guy who found me wandering on the side of the road twenty years ago.”

Both men turned to him, wearing almost identical expressions of _what the hell_. But standing next to Alex, Michael saw the almost invisible tremble in his arms. It was taking a lot out of Alex to hold himself upright. “You ready to get out of here?” he asked.

Alex blinked once, startled out of the argument. “If you’re ready to go.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll come back and pick up your stuff later.”

“Most of it is still in storage. I’ll ask my brother to send it. I just need the duffle bag from my room and the wheelchair folded up by the door.”

“Why don’t I get you settled in the truck first?” Michael figured he had a good sense of when a situation was about to go bad, honed over many years, and Manes had the face of a man who wanted to beat some sense into his son.

He waited while Alex assessed him, the way his father had at the door. Manes had found him wanting. Whatever Alex saw, whatever he sensed, Michael must have measured up.

“Okay,” Alex said. “Let’s go.”

Michael let Alex go first, slowly but confidently on his crutches. He didn’t feel thrilled about turning his back on Manes, but unless the man was completely insane, he wouldn’t attack his son’s Companion. When they reached the door, Michael said, “Which coat is yours?”

Alex gestured with his chin, and they performed an awkward dance to thread each of Alex’s arms through the sleeves. Michael wanted to offer to zip it up, but he already had the feeling that Alex wasn’t going to welcome any help he didn’t outright ask for. Instead, he waited as Alex leaned against the wall, fumbled the coat closed, and headed out the door without another look at his father.

Michael made sure to walk next to Alex on the sidewalk to the truck, in case Alex needed to reach out for him. Once Alex had settled himself in the passenger seat, Michael took the crutches and set them in the truck bed. He’d tie them down along with the suitcase and the wheelchair when he got them loaded.

But before he did that, he wanted to check in with Alex. “You okay?”

Alex looked up from his phone, startled. “Yeah, fine. Don’t worry about that whole mess--none of it was actually about you.”

“Hey, uh.” He wanted to ask a question. Maybe it wasn’t the best time, but Alex had just defended his choice to his father. “Did you really pick me? I figured it was a computer program matching up people.”

Alex shook his head slowly. “No, I got a list to choose from. You...you looked like you could do the job.”

“Never been accused of that before,” Michael said. “My tenth-grade teacher would finally be happy.”

Alex chuckled, already focused on his phone again. Michael headed back into the house to grab the suitcase and wheelchair, his heart beating a little faster.

Manes hadn’t moved, still standing in the living room. Michael slipped past him, down the hallway, peeking in open doors until he saw a duffle resting on a bed.

“I hope you’re prepared to fulfill the terms of your contract, Guerin,” Manes said as he returned to the living room.

Michael stopped, both hands full. “The contract’s between me and him.”

“Actually, the contract’s between you and SCC. And if you violate that contract, you could face serious penalties. Up to and including jail time.”

Maybe there were worse things than not having a family, if the alternative was an asshole like this.

“Trust me,” Michael said. “I won’t be violating anything.”

*

Alex gave him brief directions as they pulled away from the Manes house, getting them out of the neighborhood and heading north. After a few minutes of Alex staring at his phone yet again, Michael thought it was time to interrupt.

“You gonna tell me where we’re actually going, or was that just a line you fed your dad?”

Alex looked up and over at Michael, squinting a little against the afternoon sun. “Don’t worry, I promise we have somewhere to sleep tonight. An old hunting cabin outside of town.”

Things with his dad had to be pretty bad if Alex chose a hunting cabin over a comfortable suburban house. Michael let it go for the moment. Alex spent the next half hour looking out the window. At what, Michael had no idea, since it was nothing but dust out there once they got past the houses. But he was content to let the time pass in silence, with only the country music playing on the radio.

The cabin was a curve ball he hadn’t expected, but he had no problem putting some distance between them and Jesse Manes. And, honestly, between them and the town. He’d been on edge since entering the city limits for no good reason he could understand. Maybe it was just the transition--moving to a new place, starting a new job, trying to put long-term plans in motion for the first time in his life.

He had contact information for the other Green brother, Graham. Once he and Alex got settled and into a routine, he’d get in touch and transfer the money. With the number of medical appointments Alex had in town, Michael would have plenty of time to kill. That would get him set up at the Emporium, let him start figuring out what genuine artifacts they had and where they’d found them.

Grant had described his brother as “the boring one.” Michael hoped that meant that Graham handled the money and logistics and left the conspiracy theories to Grant.

“Take the next left up there,” Alex said. “It’s only another fifteen minutes or so.”

“You got it,” Michael replied as he slowed the truck and made the turn.

“I hope this is okay,” Alex said, shifting his weight and turning slightly toward Michael. “I realize it’s not exactly what you signed up for, living in the middle of nowhere.”

“Contract just says you have to give me a room. Doesn’t say where.” He snuck a look at Alex, who looked dubious. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

“Why did you want to move to Roswell anyway? Uh, not that you have to tell me what you need the money for.”

Michael weighed his options, but he wouldn’t be able to hide how he was spending his time in town. Besides, Alex had grown up in Roswell; he’d probably been raised on stories of the famous alien crash. That might be a good place to start his research. It would be easy to slip questions into conversations while they were living together.

“It’s not a secret. I’m investing in the UFO Emporium,” Michael said.

“Seriously?” When Alex smiled, one eyebrow quirked and fine lines appeared around his eyes. Michael wasn’t blind, he’d already noticed that Alex was attractive, but the smile transformed his face, made him look five years younger.

“Uh, yeah,” Michael said. “Alien stuff has always been a hobby of mine.” It was kind of true, if you looked at it sideways.

Alex’s slow nod seemed to indicate his worry that Michael might launch into a diatribe about Them living among us. He let the subject drop without any further questions. “Up ahead on the right. That’s the road to the cabin.”

Michael decided that a subject change would be a good idea. Between the aliens and Michael’s heart-warming trucker story, Alex might start second-guessing his choice of Companion. “Why’s your dad such an asshole?”

Alex laughed, though amusement quickly faded from his face. “I’m a disappointment to him in a few important ways.”

“Kind of hard to believe you could be a disappointment, with the Air Force thing and the medals.” Michael had only seen the brief outline of Alex’s service in his file, but three deployments and a Purple Heart spoke for themselves.

“Sure, that stuff is important to my dad, but not as important as being a real ‘Manes man’.” On Michael’s confused look, he said, “Don’t ask--it’s not even worth explaining. Look, there’s the cabin.”

Michael pulled up into the clearing and parked the truck. Wooden building, two chimneys, shingled roof. It wasn’t spacious, but there ought to be enough room for the two of them. Though, he noticed, the whole structure was elevated a couple of feet, which meant stairs leading to the two doors he could see.

By the time he circled around the truck and grabbed the crutches, Alex had slid out of the passenger seat and was leaning back against it, balanced on his left leg, waiting for Michael to retrieve his crutches.

“Hold on, let me help you,” Michael said, handing over the crutches.

Without lifting his head, Alex snapped, “I can walk, Guerin.”

Michael held up his hands placatingly. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“Just--let me do this,” Alex said, looking abashed. “I’ll ask for help if I need it.”

If it came down to it, Michael could use his powers to help stabilize Alex, or even catch him if he fell, but that was a risk he didn’t want to take.

Alex made his way towards the door in front of them, then paused, shifting both crutches under his right arm. “I could use a hand here, actually.”

Michael went to stand on his left side and let Alex put a hand on his shoulder. Supporting his weight on the crutches and Michael, he set his good leg on the first step, then pushed up to stand on it. Repeat, repeat, repeat, and Michael decided to bring up the subject of a ramp as soon as Alex wouldn’t take his head off about it. It would only take a quick trip to Home Depot and a few hours of time.

The cabin was dim, with curtains blocking out a lot of the light coming through the windows. Dust motes floated in the air, but the furniture had sheets tossed over it.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Michael said. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but this looked like it would stand up to a sturdy breeze.

“Yeah, I found out not that long ago that Jim--that a family friend left it to me before he died. His wife’s been taking care of it--renting it out occasionally, making sure it was winterized, so the pipes and chimneys should be okay.”

From where they stood, they could see almost all of the place. Kitchen on the right, hallway leading straight back to the bedroom. Michael assumed the bathroom was the door on the right. “Are you able to use the shower?”

“I’ll just worry about cleaning my leg tonight,” Alex said. “First thing on the list tomorrow is a shower seat and a handheld shower head.”

“So where is this room of mine? Because that couch looks like it’s seen better days.”

Alex pointed behind him with a tilt of his head. “Bunkhouse out there. And it’s got its own fireplace so you won’t freeze to death.”

“Fancy,” Michael said. “Only the one bathroom, though, right?”

“Yeah. If we’d stayed at my dad’s house you could have had your own.”

“Not a problem.” He’d certainly lived in worse situations, like sharing a barely working bathroom sink with four girls under the age of sixteen.

“You might change your mind the first time you need to walk through sub-zero temperatures to take a piss.”

“I’ll make sure to bring an empty bottle with me at night, just in case.” Michael stepped carefully around Alex and scanned the front room. “Why don’t you camp out in that chair in the corner?”

“I’m not going to just sit--”

“I didn’t say you were. But let me get all the rugs up, make sure there’s a clear path through here. If you fall on your face, I’m the one that’s going to get in trouble.”

Alex looked like he still wanted to argue, but then he sagged a little, as much as he could while still propped on his crutches. “Fine. I’m not sure it will work with the wheelchair, but if--”

“Dude,” Michael said, on the edge of getting irritated. “Sit down. Let me handle it. It’s why I’m here.”

The frown on Alex’s face slowly faded, replaced with a hint of a teasing smile. “You gonna handle taking the sheet off that chair?”

Michael slipped the sheet off the chair and returned to help Alex maneuver around the table. “Watch it, Manes,” he said as Alex got settled. “You keep fighting me, and I’m gonna put a frog in your bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

There were disadvantages to living in Jim Valenti’s hunting cabin. A strong wind could knock down the power line and had once already. The lack of cable forced Alex to rely on a satellite dish for internet access. The commute into Roswell was 45 minutes one way, which was three times a week, minimum, for physical therapy, and more often if he had appointments with the orthopedic surgeon, the neurologist, or the psychiatrist. The drive to Albuquerque to see the prosthetic specialist was over twice as long.

The advantages outweighed them all. The biggest was privacy. No one from Roswell knew where he was staying even if everyone knew he was in town because Max Evans interviewed Jesse about the return of his war-wounded son. The nearest neighbor lived two miles down the road, and the only visitors were chipmunks, deer, and birds. Wind and coyotes provided the soundtrack at night. From the moment of the IED blast on a roadside in Iraq, Alex had been thrust through various forms of chaos and speed and noise. At the cabin, he could breathe, looking out at the view from the front porch. The silence gave him space to sit with the reality of what had happened to him, and space to consider what he could make happen in the future. Mostly he could just sit. Exist. Breathe. 

People did intrude through virtual means. His social media had exploded after news of his injury got out. People he hadn’t talked to in decades posted on his Facebook wall, and people he didn’t know at all posted, too. Greetings from friends alternately cheered and depressed him. Some came from surprising sources: a fling that ended badly from a few years ago, a bully from high school. The bigger surprise came from a friend he met through NSA training on IT security--not that Naveed wouldn’t wish him well; in fact, Alex expected Naveed would have visited him in the hospital before OZ. The surprise was that he sent a direct message. Alex replied with his cell number. 

Alex wrote a quick “out of the hospital and getting better” post, didn’t answer comments directly but liked them all. It was exhausting, but Facebook gave him a remote glimpse into his old life, like peering through a keyhole the size of his cell phone at his family and friends, the guys in his unit still overseas. His CO Skyped him from Iraq to inform him the investigation was closed and Alex cleared of any negligence, and then gave him two awkward minutes of well-wishes for a quick recovery and good luck in his new posting.

Maria pestered him by Facebook Messenger until he gave her his new number. Ten seconds later, his cell phone rang. “I had to hear it from _Lindsey Burnhart_ that you’re living in a rustic chalet with a tasty snack who is your personal Companion?” 

“I, uh, what?” She called on one of those afternoons when Alex was sitting in his wheelchair on the front porch, scrolling through his phone when he wasn’t watching gray clouds scud across the winter sky, thinking about nothing instead of the relentless details of rehabilitation screaming for attention. 

“Well? Do you or do you not have a hot Companion? And how can you afford him?” 

“How the hell does Lindsey Burnhart know? I haven’t seen her since high school.” 

“She works at the hospital cafeteria and heard you and a doctor talking about your Companion.” He knew exactly the moment Maria described: not a doctor but one of the techs from PT who had no concept of HIPAA laws. Maria said, “And apparently they were talking about the side of prime beef pushing your chair.” 

“Oh, come on! You’re making it sound like a porno,” he protested. Maria cackled down the line. “He’s--no, stop it--he’s basically a...personal care aide, you know, to run errands. He drives me around and cooks. An anonymous donor paid for it.” He kept to himself the humiliation of his father’s involvement. 

“Oo, he _cooks_. And he _drives_. Does he _wash your car_? Just how hot is he?”

Laughter welled up, white puffs in the cold air. “Oh my god, Maria!” 

“Oh my god, Alex!” She laughed with him until they petered out into a quiet pause. She said, “When the news came...I was really scared for you, sweetie.” 

“Yeah, I was scared, too.” The admission came easily because he had been terrified, but now, in this moment, he was comfortable, as if his trauma had been anesthetized. He’d had enough warning from his psychiatrist to know the numbness wouldn’t last but, God, it felt good to talk with Maria.

The door opened, and Michael stepped out, wool blanket from the couch in hand. “Hey,” he said. He laid the blanket on Alex’s lap and twitched a corner but dropped it before he actually tucked it in. “Dinner at five.” Alex said _okay_ before Michael withdrew.

“Was that him?” Maria asked. “Seriously. Is he hot? I mean, I don’t usually listen to Lindsey, and, full disclosure: she did not say he was a tasty snack in a rustic chalet, she said he was like a cowboy stripper living in a shed outside of town, but she does know hot, even if she keeps dating Hank Gibbons.” 

“Cowboy stripper? Tell me you’re kidding.” 

“She said he wore boots and open flannel. Had a nice hairy chest,” Maria said, and Alex burst out laughing because Michael had just delivered the blanket with his shirt open at least three buttons. “Alex! Oh my god, really?” 

“He’s--sure, whatever, he’s hot.” Michael’s profile photo had caught Alex’s eye for a reason. But in the first few minutes they met, Alex could have kissed this stranger when he deflected Jesse’s bullying with an anecdote weird enough to stop their arguing cold. Michael had laid out a question into the silence he engineered: _You ready to get out of here?_ If Michael had asked him the same question in a bar, Alex would have gone with him then, too, for a different reason. 

“Lucky you,” Maria said, sweet and teasing.

“But it’s not like what people think about Companions. You know I couldn’t do that,” Alex said. “He’s made things easier, though. He’s made it so I don’t have to rely on my dad.” 

Understanding was a soft plume in his ear as Maria sighed. “Ohhh. I am so glad to hear that. You know you could stay with me if you had to, right?” 

“I know.” 

Maria wheedled him about a visit, but he put her off, like he put off everyone else who wanted to visit, and she let it drop. 

Another advantage of cabin living was Michael Guerin. Since he didn’t want a Companion, Alex mentally placed Michael in the category of medical-based helpers. Guerin wasn’t a glorified prostitute; he was an actual nurse-aide-cook-housekeeper-driver combo with handyman skills. Alex had called him Guerin and requested the minimum of help he could to function in the early days. Michael provided what Alex actually needed--always more than Alex asked for--like an easy-going tyrant. Then he would disappear into the bunkhouse, always only a text away. But after a week or so of adjusting to the new normal, when Michael set dinner in front of Alex and retreated to eat in his own room, Alex had said, “Sit with me. I’m tired of holding up both halves of the dinner conversation.” Michael had smiled and ducked his head and sat down. And Alex stopped calling him by his last name.

After a few weeks of his cooking and cleaning, the hours he spent delivering Alex to hospitals and doctors' offices, and the tinkering that made the cabin livable for a man using a wheelchair and crutches, Michael had proved himself very useful, and Alex was grateful for those services. But Michael also helped Alex endure the indignities of reclaiming his damaged body, and he did it with respect and enough self-deprecating humor to make accepting his help bearable. Michael had become expected. Familiar. As much a part of the cabin as the mortar between the logs.

But that ease came with a consequence. Alex had picked him from dozens of Companions to flout in the face of his father’s homophobia and his choice worked brilliantly. But Michael accompanied Alex everywhere, and because of one ill-timed conversation in front of a nosy hospital cafeteria cashier, everyone knew he was Alex’s Companion. As flimsy as his closet had been, it was gone now because whether or not he took advantage of the Intimacy Clause, people would assume he did. 

Alex could deny everything, but what was the point? They built a domestic routine between them that strengthened Alex, even though he resented the dependency. Even when Michael’s help was nearly invisible. Especially when Alex was rude with pain, on days like today when the deeper injury was still healing. 

Kneading didn’t relieve the ache in his stump, and trying to find the right angle to dig into the muscle made his shoulders burn with the effort. Michael walked in from the kitchen and set a mug full of water, a generic cereal bar, and two blue gelcaps on the coffee table in front of Alex. “You can get the good stuff with dinner.” 

“I know how to take my own meds,” Alex sniped at Michael’s retreating back, and Michael added, “Eat the bar so your stomach doesn’t melt.” 

“I don’t like the strawberry ones,” muttered Alex.

“Everyone likes strawberry.” 

“I’m sick of these.” He couldn’t see Michael and raised his voice. “Does this brand even have different flavors?” 

“What do you want?” Michael called out from the bathroom. 

“Anything but strawberry! Blueberry. Apple cinnamon. Cherry.” 

The hot water pipes groaned. “Only the name brand has those.” 

“Then get the name brand!” 

Michael returned, the hot water bottle in hand, the terrycloth cover in place. “I’ll make a list,” he said, and Alex clamped his mouth shut, throwing his glance out the window. Michael offered the bottle. Alex thanked him without making eye contact, grateful when Michael withdrew through the cabin to the front porch without comment and closed the door behind him. 

Before the heat could penetrate, Alex heard tires crunch over the gravel in the back yard. An engine idled, then stopped, and there was a long pause before footsteps approached the cabin and creaked on the back porch. Michael was already off the front porch, shoulders square, striding away across the field, giving them both space. Alex heaved himself off the couch to answer the door, not surprised to find his father on the other side. 

“What are you doing here?” Alex demanded over the threshold. 

“Can I come in?” Jesse asked mildly. He always spoke mildly. 

“No. What do you want?” 

“I want to talk about your future.” 

“And I want a nap.” Alex started to close the door.

“Where’s that Companion of yours? He should be answering your door.” 

Alex paused. His father was never demonstrative, but he wasn’t completely inscrutable. Alex had scored a point--several points--by choosing his own Companion, and that tiny whiff of irritation at something Jesse couldn’t control was satisfying. “I don’t want to talk about my future. Dad.” 

“I’m offering a glimpse of what you can expect, that’s all. Take a look at this.” Jesse held out a flash drive. “It’s just a few minutes of your time. Please, Alex.” 

They stared at each other through the open doorway and twenty-eight years. Alex spent his childhood trying to earn his father’s love. He spent his teens trying to prove how different he was from his father. He spent his twenties demonstrating how he could make better use of the genetic material his father did give him. For a moment he was all three. Alex nodded to the left. “Leave it on the bench.” 

Jesse glanced at the worn old bench, frowning. He started to protest but Michael swung onto the porch from behind the wood pile. “Hey there,” he said, walking right into Jesse’s space. “Do we have a guest tonight, Alex? Shall I lay out the good silverware?”

Jesse stood his ground. He held out the drive. “Give this to your Patron.” 

Michael glanced at Alex, the question plain in the set of his eyebrows. Alex nodded, heat prickling his face and chest. Michael took the drive, smiling obnoxiously as Jesse turned about-face, returned to his car and drove off. They stood in place until only cold dust remained, slowly settling. 

“He’s just always that sunny, isn’t he,” said Michael, breaking the moment. Alex faded back to the couch, all the aches and pains returning, and Michael secured the door before kicking off his boots. 

“You didn’t have to come back.” 

“I forgot my coat. Hey,” he swerved from his path to the kitchen, “you didn’t get that heat on, did you?” 

“It’s still warm.” Alex fussed on the couch, looking for comfort, or at least a position that didn’t actively hurt. 

Michael grabbed a throw pillow from the chair and loomed close. “Back support.” He nudged Alex, who tried to anticipate where the pillow was going and braced his foot against the seat _but his foot wasn’t there_ and slithered to the floor--”Fuck!” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Shit, I’m sorry, don’t--” Michael didn’t move away but he stopped trying to position Alex. “Let me-- Hold still, I’m gonna-- Just let me do the work, okay?” 

Humiliation roasted Alex. He’d had a few incidents in the days after surgery when his brain insisted he had two legs and he’d wobbled during PT or when a nurse helped him to the bathroom, but it had been over a month since the surgery; nearly two. And logically, his brain neatly tabulated how the day had fucked him over: his physical therapist, Kenny, had an emergency with one of his kids and the substitute made it a rocky session; the necessity of talking to the psychiatrist when he never wanted to talk to the psychiatrist; the visit from Jesse-fucking-Manes that stirred an old pot of anger and doubt.

Alex pushed at Michael’s arm. “I can do it.” Recovering from a fall was one of the first things they taught him: Remember, your center of balance will be different. Remember, take time to rest before you attempt to get up. Remember--

“I know. Here, pull up on me. Arms around my neck.” He squatted and steadied Alex’s hips as he slowly stood and Alex pulled himself up to sit on the couch again. Michael hovered, his mouth uncertain, then said, “Let’s try that again. I’m gonna use pillows for your shoulders and neck, then I’m gonna refill the hot water.” In minutes, Alex was laid out on the couch, well-supported, head raised enough to look at his phone or read, hot water bottle on his leg, and his mug refilled with water set near to hand on the coffee table. “Here,” Michael said as he offered a pill, “it’s not too early for this now.” 

Alex took it, drank half the water, and slumped back. He dug the heel of his hand down his thigh, but the ache was too entrenched and he gave up. 

“Hurts, huh.” Michael sat on the coffee table. “Let me try.” 

“You don’t have to--”

“I know,” Michael insisted. “You know, I did actually watch the video on how to massage half a leg. Please let me do my job because looking at what your eyebrows are doing to your face is painful.” 

The sharp knot between Alex’s eyes released. It wasn’t a smile, but he did huff, amused. Michael shifted to the edge of the couch cushion where Alex’s shin would be if he had one, set aside the hot water bottle, and tentatively laid his hands on Alex’s thigh. “Just gonna get the blood circulating, give those drugs a chance to do their job.” 

Michael worked up and down his outer leg from hip to stump. His touch was firm and sure, and Alex refused to loll back on the pillows in relief, but he wanted to as the meds trickled in and the massage tricked his nerves into feeling anything other than pain. 

Michael’s hands slowly stopped just above his knee. “Better?” 

“Yeah.” Alex shifted deeper into the pillows at his shoulder and sighed heavily. As soon as he processed the difference, the absence of pain was actively pleasurable. 

Michael inhaled and drew one hand up the front of Alex’s thigh. “I, uh, I could make you more comfortable.” 

“I have enough pillows.” Alex felt drowsy and a little stupid. 

“I don’t mean pillows.” Michael smiled and leaned closer. The late afternoon glow lit his eyes and burnished his eyelashes. Alex was fully aware exactly how pretty Michael was, but as his smile warmed and his hand curved toward the inner thigh, Alex was poleaxed by his beauty. “I mean...comfortable,” Michael said. He bit his lower lip and threw a look that clearly said _So, you wanna?_

Alex jerked back but couldn't actually disappear into the pillows. Michael’s hand stopped advancing but it didn’t withdraw. “What?” 

“I’m offering. To make you comfortable.” Michael’s smile faded. “It’s, uh. Expected?” 

“What is expected? Sex? Is sex _expected_?” 

“You know. Intimate comfort. It’s in the contract,” he pointed out, practical, and then shrugged. “I’m comfortable with whatever. I could jerk you off or, um, blow you.” 

“I don’t expect sex!” 

“It’s not a problem. I’m bisexual.” 

“It’s a problem for me!” 

Michael withdrew, radiating dismay even as his expression smoothed, but Alex could read the mortification. “My bad,” said Michael. “I’ll, uh. I’ll be in my--the bunkhouse. Text if you need anything.” He left without his shoes or coat. Before Alex could even begin to process any of that interaction, a text pinged through.

> Michael: Srysly TXT ME if u need smthng

Then, five minutes later: 

> Michael: sorry about the misunderstanding. it won’t happen again. is spaghetti okay for dinner?

Alex sent back a _yes_ and then stared at the ceiling, mind full of static, until he woke from an unintentional nap to the smell of garlic bread. Michael set the table when Alex sat up and took his time to make the transition from sitting to standing. Michael made no offer to help Alex rise or swivel around the table or sit. Alex said, “Smells good.” 

“It’s just toast with some butter and garlic powder.” 

Alex took a bite. “I like it.” 

*

Physically, Alex turned a corner after that day. Maybe he needed to hit a low point to start heading back up, or maybe his nervous system was finally getting the memo: one leg, not two. Probably it was the tweak in his meds. 

But there was a fug between him and Michael.

Alex logged on to the Program site and reviewed the training video, “Respectful Interactions During Acts of Sexual Comfort: Your Companion and You.” All Patrons and Companions were required to view the video and complete a five-question quiz at the end. It was worse than the first time he viewed it, and though it did have instruction on how to decline a sexual advance--including a blow job among the specific acts, and which Alex had absolutely fucked up--it had nothing useful to say about regaining an easy domesticity after.

In the days following, they were careful with each other and hardly said a word. Alex hadn’t noticed just how much they used to talk until their conversations had dwindled to logistics. _We need milk. Add english muffins to the list. My appointment got moved to three-thirty. Sure, take the whole day, I’ll eat leftovers._ Michael holed up in the bunkhouse when he wasn’t making meals or cleaning up. More often he would go out on errands that he never described. Occasionally Alex heard him banging around the woodpile outside. Mostly Michael made himself scarce. Alex opened the laptop he’d bought on his last trip to Albuquerque to watch Netflix until he got bored, and then played with some open-source code he’d downloaded. 

He also poked his brother about shipping his belongings and got a text reply: _Cool your jets, they’re on a truck heading your way._ Clay added a tracking number and a photo of the baby, which looked more like a baby and less like a potato. Alex’s things would arrive Wednesday. His mood improved at the prospect, and a layer of ease as light as the powdery snow outside cleared the stumbling politeness between him and Michael. Michael went on fewer of his mysterious jaunts. Alex resumed using full sentences and worried less about the next four-hour round trip to Albuquerque. And although they did nothing special for Christmas, instead of retreating to his own space after a mid-day dinner and cleanup, Michael hunkered down by the fire with a book while Alex poked at the internet or talked to friends on the phone. 

OZ called with regrets that he couldn’t make it to Roswell and reminiscing that felt forced. Crude jokes about Alex’s leg in the morbid humor of military men were more honest. And then, “You thinking about getting out?” 

Of course he thought about it; he thought about it daily, but he said, “The only thing I’m thinking about is getting a new leg. Santa didn’t leave one in my stocking.” 

Michael cleared his throat, grinning into his book. 

“There are still opportunities out there for you. You don’t need two legs to serve, not with your connections.” 

“First things first,” he replied, and stumbled through a final volley of small talk until he hung up. He tapped his phone against his mouth, thoughtfully. He did have connections, though only his father had shown up to discuss the future. 

*

The truck from Biloxi arrived as Alex pondered code that refused to compile and Michael made lunch. Michael walked to the door, knife streaked with mustard in hand as he peered out the door and asked, “You expecting company?” 

Alex reached for his crutches. “It’s my stuff,” he said, and nudged past Michael to shoulder the door open and stand on the porch. A bald white man swung from the driver’s seat and approached, clipboard in hand, while another person rounded the back of the truck. Metal rattled as they opened the back. 

“Delivery for Alex Manes,” said the driver, staring at where Alex’s sweatpants leg was tied over his stump. When Alex nodded, the man added, “I guess you’ll want help getting it inside.” 

Michael joined Alex on the porch, hands empty. “Maybe. Whatcha got for us?” 

“Six items. Sign here.” The driver held the clipboard wavering between Alex and Michael as if unsure who should sign. Alex snagged it and signed with the pen tied to the clipboard, leaning hard on one crutch. 

The driver didn’t help but the other person, a short, broad Latino, did. He wheeled a hand-truck stacked with oversized, yellow-topped black totes to the foot of the steps. He and Michael carried the totes in, and then a large moving box and a hard-sided guitar case. Michael grinned as he rested his hand on the guitar case on the top of the stack and said, “Merry Christmas.” The entire load crowded the living room. Alex refused to let the truck leave before he popped the lids off the totes to give each a long look inside, and opened the guitar case. Before the rumble of the truck faded, Michael eyed the pile again and said, “Look at that. New roommates.” 

“What are you talking about.” Alex’s attention was sunk in the first tote.

“It’s not like you can fit all this stuff in here. You’ll have to put some of it in the bunkhouse.” 

“I can if you clean out that closet.” 

“But where will the dead animals live now?” 

Alex sat on the floor and inventoried his things while Michael dug through the closet. One tote held a small collection of nicer housewares--dishes and silverware for four, a few pots and pans and gadgets, towels and sheets--a few knick-knacks and books, and a very few framed photos. A lamp, a lap desk, a soft throw, a wastepaper basket. He pulled out the lap desk and towels and repacked the rest. 

The last two totes were full of electronic equipment. One held laptops, a CPU tower, three monitors, various routers and peripherals and power supplies. He set the two laptops on the chair next to him. The other tote held his keyboard, music stand, and sheet music. He ran his fingers over the keyboard in its canvas cover and replaced the lids on both. Michael was right; some of this stuff would have to live in the bunkhouse. 

Meanwhile, Michael emptied the closet but had built a mess on the floor: trophy taxidermy, two paper grocery bags full of paperbacks, a snarl of fishing gear, a rotting tent, defunct sporting equipment, a stack of incomplete board games and other ephemera from childhood. “Some of this would make good kindling,” Michael said. “Unless you’re into used Yahtzee score pads and a cardboard Scrabble game, or Tom Clancy books and”--he turned a thicker book over--”Atlas Shrugged.” 

“Generally speaking I’m not into burning books.” 

“Oo, Harry Potter. Prisoner of Azkaban.” Michael waved a book at him, then another. “Holes! I read that in school. And one, two, hm, four Animorphs books.” 

“Those were Kyle’s.” 

“Who’s Kyle?” 

“His dad owned this place.” 

“And he read Animorphs books?” 

“He didn’t like Harry Potter.” 

“So, just burn them, or,” said Michael, “I’d take a book or two. You mind?”

Alex looked up. “Go for it. Clear off a shelf if you want and keep whatever you want. Throw anything that’ll burn in the kindling box. We can make a trip to the dump for the rest.” 

“All those poor Bambis. And a Thumper.” He frowned and said, “Hey, you gotta eat,” which earned a flash of irritation from Alex, then he said in exactly the same tone, “Hey, I gotta eat.” His sudden smile was the _hey, we’re all in on the joke here and isn’t it hilarious?_ smirk that hadn’t made an appearance since the most awkward offer of sex Alex had ever received. Then Alex’s gut let out a two-tone dipping whine, and they both cracked up laughing. 

“Fine, whatever, you win,” Alex muttered, still amused, and for the first time in a week said, “Gimme a hand up,” and accepted Michael’s firm warm clasp.


	4. Chapter 4

Investing in the UFO Emporium had not produced the results Michael had envisioned.

A complication that he hadn’t foreseen: he needed Alex’s permission to work outside of the house. Actual, literal permission, documented on a form he downloaded from SCC’s website. After the misunderstanding about his contractual obligations, asking Alex to sign it was awkward, but at least it was done quickly.

Once at the Emporium, he’d sought out the shard Grant had shown him, desperate to feel that connection again. He found it locked in a case along with two others, their colors only slightly muted through the glass. He could open it, but only when the Greens weren’t around to watch as he touched them, trying to learn more, to get some guidance. He’d held out hope that they’d lead him to more genuine artifacts, either in the Emporium or nearby.

But the rest of the museum was filled with styrofoam models and old posters dating back decades. Michael had mostly lifted heavy things, listened to Grant and Graham argue, and researched people offering so-called alien stuff for sale.

For the moment, he was happy enough to spend his time running their errands around town and occasionally farther afield. Something about the Emporium set him on edge. He’d done an initial deep-dive into the collection, and the only interesting thing he’d found was a file cabinet full of newspaper clippings from the 40s and 50s. After he scanned through the first few that mentioned the crash, he left the rest alone. They didn’t tell him anything useful, and it felt like reading his family’s obituaries.

He finished securing the groceries in the back of the truck and made sure the cooler lid was firmly closed. Since Alex had to come into Albuquerque frequently for medical appointments, they usually took the opportunity to stock up on stuff that wasn’t available in Roswell, like the fancy trail mix Alex liked to have around.

Alex wouldn’t be done with his appointment for another half hour or so, which gave Michael time to meet with a seller who’d contacted the Emporium. Michael expected to arrive in the Wal-Mart parking lot and find a guy with a two-foot-long beard and a dirty cardboard box in the back of an old Chevy truck with rusted-out body panels.

It had snowed a little bit as they drove into town at noon, but by two in the afternoon, the snow had melted, leaving a cutting wind behind. He exited I-40 and headed towards the Wal-Mart the seller had suggested, avoiding the cluster of vehicles near the entrance and pulling into a spot on the far right of the lot. The seller had insisted that Michael send a description of his truck, so he could “assess the situation” before he approached.

At least meeting a weirdo conspiracy theorist in person would be a nice change from talking to them on message boards.

He killed ten minutes listening to the local hard rock station and reading one of the paperbacks he’d taken from the cabin. When he reached the end of a chapter, he looked around--still no sign of anyone. He shot off a quick text to the number the seller had given him, hoping the guy wasn’t going to flake out on him.

His phone buzzed, but when he thumbed open the message, it was from Alex.

> Alex: done with fitting, getting instructions now. finished in abt 20 min

Michael responded with an acknowledgment. It would take ten minutes to drive back to the hospital and another five to park and get to the prosthetics lab. He’d have to give up on this guy and hope he could connect the next time they drove--

A knock on his window startled him, and he cursed as he fumbled the phone and almost dropped it.

Well, he’d been wrong about what the guy would be like. The broadly smiling face outside his window looked about twenty years old. And female.

Michael cocked his head to indicate that he’d open his door if she backed up a little. “Hi, uh, Blake?”

“Hey, nice to meet you. Michael, right?”

“Yeah.” He wouldn’t have been surprised to see this girl behind the counter at Starbucks, or getting drinks bought for her at the Wild Pony in Roswell. But she didn’t strike him as the type to hit up flea markets and junkyards in search of an opportunity to turn a profit.

“Wow,” she said, hefting a brightly flowered purse higher on her shoulder. “I thought you’d be older.”

“Back at you,” Michael replied, after trying and failing to find anything less inane to say.

“Super-easy to find your truck, though! You described it really well.”

“Yeah, I’m good at...describing things. Look, not to rush you, but I’ve got somewhere to be, so I’d appreciate it if we could get this done.”

“Oh! Sure, no problem.” She spun around and headed to the back of Michael’s truck, bouncing away like she was about to lead a pep rally, then waited for him to lower the tailgate before setting her bag on it.

He expected her to pull out a “moon rock” or maybe a piece of a small appliance, claiming it was ancient alien technology . He was preparing his _thanks, but no thanks_ speech when she unzipped the bag and he caught a glimpse of what was inside.

Two pieces of the iridescent material, each larger than the piece Grant Green had shown him. Before he could stop himself, Michael reached out to touch one. Just like the other shard, gold symbols shined on the surface, as if they were lit from inside. With a quick look at Blake, who smiled, he pulled it out of the bag.

It sat in the palm of his hand, and he could swear it was quivering, like an eager horse ready to run.

“Where did you get these?” Michael asked.

Blake flipped her long red braid over her shoulder. “Oh, my ex-boyfriend went to some racist ‘vision quest’ thing? On this ranch near Roswell? And, like, dug them up as part of his cleansing.”

“Foster Ranch?”

She shrugged and took the second piece out of her purse. “Maybe? I don’t remember.”

“Could you try?” Michael gritted out, fighting the urge to grab the other piece and take off.

“Um, sure? Foster Ranch.” She sounded like she was starting to regret this meeting, so Michael shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the cash that Grant had given him. Graham had made it clear that he expected Michael to negotiate, but Michael just held the money out to Blake.

“We good?”

Blake took the cash, fanned it out to quickly check the total, and handed over the second piece. “Sure. But you should, like, switch to green tea? It’ll really help with your stress.”

“I kinda doubt that.” Michael swung the tailgate shut and got into the driver’s seat, almost catching Blake’s fingers in his door as he moved to shut it.

“Oh, there’s one more little thing, if you want it.”

He took a deep breath and carefully controlled his tone. “Whatever it is, I want it.”

“Okay, but I’m not just giving it to you for free.”

Michael gritted his teeth and pulled out his wallet. Problem was, with most expenses going on the company-provided credit card, he carried almost no cash. “I have thirty-two dollars.”

Blake took it with a huff and dropped a palm-sized piece of metal in his hand. He snuck a quick look at it, noted the three-pronged symbol etched into it, and shoved it into his pocket. At some other time, he might have found it interesting, but not with the shards sitting in front of him.

“Anything else?”

Blake huffed again at his ingratitude and spun on her heel, marching back to her car.

Michael had to get to the hospital, but the more he touched the shards, the more compelling they became. Checking around, he confirmed that Blake’s SUV was gone, and no one else was parked within four rows. These pieces--they felt familiar, like he should understand what they were and what they did.

He held one piece in the air with telekinesis and spun it around, looking at it from every angle. Maybe--the edges looked like they might fit together. Stabilizing one in the air, he held the other one up and tried to match them.

And almost dropped them when they _flowed_ together.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, rubbing a finger over where the seam should be. Nothing. He couldn’t see or feel any indication that what he held had been two separate pieces. It had to be a part of the ship that shattered on impact. The hull, like Grant thought? A control panel? Or something he couldn’t even conceive of?

His phone pinged.

> Alex: Where are u?

Shit. He didn’t have any kind of bag or backpack to hide the shard in. With another glance around, he confirmed that he was still alone, so he jumped into the bed and quickly stashed it at the bottom of the heaviest grocery bag. As he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the freeway, he tried to figure out what to do.

His first instinct was to keep the piece hidden. Alex never came to the bunkhouse, but even if he did, Michael was sure Alex wouldn’t violate his privacy and poke through his stuff. Mostly sure. And even if he found it, he wouldn’t know what to make of it.

Solon, though. Under the terms of the contract, SCC representatives had the right to inspect his living quarters at any time. The policy was in place to protect Companions and ensure that the Patrons adequately provided for them. The odds of a surprise inspection had to be low, especially living where they did, but he didn’t want to chance anyone discovering the shard.

So maybe the safest place for it was the Emporium. He always had access to the collection, and coming back with a valuable find like this? That would solidify his worth as an investor, at least with Grant. Graham was more practical, but dollar signs spoke, and genuine artifacts like this would draw a crowd. Michael planned to grab anything legit when he left town, but if he served the full term of his contract, that was a while in the future.

He thought Alex might be waiting on one of the benches outside the hospital, but there was no sign of him, so Michael parked and took the elevator up three floors to the prosthetics lab. When he pushed open the door, there was Alex, sitting in a wheelchair in the waiting room. And looking pissed.

“Where the hell have you been?” Alex snapped.

“Stuff took longer than I expected.”

“I don’t know if you remember this, but your job is to pick me up. On time.”

The prosthetist came out from behind the front desk. “Alex, keep using the compression sock, and don’t forget the stretches.” She handed Alex the crutches propped against the wall next to him, then offered her hand to Michael. “Haima Narayan. I know we haven’t officially met, but you’re Alex’s Companion?”

“Michael Guerin,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Alex and I have gone over these, but he needs to add them into his routine at home.” She passed over several sheets of paper, stapled together, with illustrations of physical therapy exercises.

“Got it.” He tucked the paper into Alex’s bag, slung over the back of the hospital wheelchair. “You ready to go?”

“No, I wanted to sit here and listen to you two talk about me like a child.”

“The appointment next week will be easier,” Haima said, “especially if you work at it.”

“Yeah,” Alex said shortly, staring straight ahead at the door. 

Michael exchanged a look with Haima. He knew that Alex’s appointments weren’t always fun, but this was the first time he’d been so uncommunicative after one. Haima, standing by the door that led back to the rehab area, just raised her eyebrows and shook her head. If there was anything Michael needed to know, as Alex’s Companion, the doctors made sure to provide it. But the fact that Alex was in a chair instead of on crutches meant that this appointment had been hard on him.

He grabbed one of the wheelchair handles, rolled it out a little from the wall, and got behind it to start pushing. Alex slapped at the button that opened the automatic doors and did the same to the elevator call button.

Michael weighed the idea of asking what had Alex in such a bad mood, but the last thing he wanted was Alex fuming in the seat next to him for the two-hour ride back to the cabin. Maybe he would fall asleep or listen to the radio or just sit in silence.

He parked the wheelchair at the passenger side of the truck and engaged the brakes on each side. When he reached down to help Alex stand, Alex actually pushed his hand away. 

“I don’t need your help.” He slipped the crutches off the footplate where he’d had them braced, set them on the ground, and began to pull himself up. It was definitely not the recommended way to transfer from chair to vehicle.

Michael contented himself with opening the truck’s door and prepared to catch Alex with telekinesis, if necessary. Alex hopped forward on his leg and shuffled until his back was to the seat, then clambered up until he could get his body on the seat. His glare at Michael dared him to say anything about the whole process.

Michael declined the silent invitation and wheeled the chair back to the garage’s elevators before heading back to the truck and hitting the road.

For a while, it seemed like he might get his wish for a peaceful trip home, but after about twenty minutes of silence, Alex turned the radio off with a sharp twist of his wrist. “Where were you?”

“Just running an errand,” Michael said, mentally cursing Blake for being late. “I know I wasn’t there when you finished, but I was only five minutes late.”

“That’s not the point, Guerin! Either you take this contract seriously or you don’t!”

“You know I take it seriously.” Michael tried to remind himself that Alex often came out of appointments in a bad mood, but being berated was starting to piss him off.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Alex retorted.

“So what are you going to do? Release me? You know I can’t pay back the money, and they’ll just toss me in jail.”

“Calm down.” Alex sullenly leaned back against the seat. “I didn’t say I would release you.”

“You don’t have to _say_ it.” Michael had gotten comfortable. Stupid, to forget what he’d signed himself up for. Just because Alex didn’t lean on the contract, it didn’t change the situation. If Alex took it into his head to release him, he didn’t have many options. He’d have to grab what he could from the Emporium and take off, never able to return to Roswell.

It didn’t matter that his libido had kicked in when presented with a bliss-drunk Alex, or that Alex hadn’t taken him up on his impulsive offer of a blowjob. Or that he’d caught Alex looking at him when he thought Michael wouldn’t notice. Or that he’d cataloged that sweet half-smile of Alex’s the first time he took a guitar out of its case and tested the strings with a gentle strum.

The truth was, Alex would have to make him go, because Michael had finally found somewhere he wanted to stay.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Alex let out a deep sigh that ended with a hiss of pain. “My appointment sucked and I took it out on you.”

“Sorry for being late,” Michael conceded.

“I just--I was excited for this, getting the prosthesis fitted, trying it on. I didn’t expect it to be so difficult.” Alex shifted in his seat, putting more weight on his left side.

He usually came out of appointments tired and a little sore, but not to this degree. “I thought you were doing well. Was there a problem?”

“No, not really.” Alex said. “There are so many steps involved in putting the leg on, and it hurt. I’d convinced myself I was going to be different. That I’d recover quicker, that the process would be faster. That one day, I’d walk out of that place with a prosthetic leg and never look back. Today reminded me of how far I still have to go.”

Michael should have seen this coming. Alex had pushed himself since the day they met, bristling at anything that resembled concessions for his disability. Everything he did was aimed at regaining as much mobility as he could. And If Michael tried to offer sympathy, Alex would take it as another concession--or worse, pity.

“That sucks.” He thought he could probably get away with that.

He felt Alex looking at him, but they sat in silence until Alex turned the radio back on; he fiddled with the tuning a bit until the station came in clearer. “Were you off doing something for the UFO Emporium? I’m not bitching, just asking.”

“Yeah,” Michael said after a moment’s thought. Not like he could say anything else.

“I know you said that researching aliens was a hobby, but how do you get from that to actually investing money with the Green brothers?”

He was lucky that Alex hadn’t asked him to explain it before, which didn’t help him figure out how to explain it now. “I, uh…”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Alex hurried to say. “It’s not really any of my business.”

“No, it’s okay.” Michael nervously drummed the fingers of one hand on the steering wheel. “My, um, my family died in a fire when I was a kid. I grew up in foster care.”

“I’m sorry.” Alex reached out and rested a hand on Michael’s shoulder. His fingers were warm through the cloth of his shirt. Michael started a little at the contact, but Alex just tightened his grip and then let his hand drop.

“Thanks. They--my family--were really interested in space and aliens. They would tell me stories, show me stars through a telescope. So I guess it’s kind of a way to remember them. Maybe it seems stupid, but it’s not like I was doing anything where I was. In Amarillo, where I met Grant Green.”

He didn’t want to look at Alex. He didn’t want to see any expression of sympathy on his face. Besides, it was true, wasn’t it? True enough. His family was dead. They were interested in aliens, since they were aliens. And he didn’t have any memories of them, but surely they’d looked at stars together. He hoped they had.

“It’s not stupid,” Alex murmured. “I’m sorry about your family.”

He should thank him, or say something. But it felt dirty, using Alex’s sympathy to distract him from the real reason he was in Roswell. He was already using Alex, relying on a disabled vet to provide him with money, however many intermediaries it went through.

Instead, he turned the radio up, and when the song changed, Alex started singing along.


	5. Chapter 5

Alex hadn’t forgotten about the thumb drive; he was prioritizing. The return of his mobility came first, as frustrating as the process was. And he refused to engage in any way with data Jesse Manes provided until he had the right tools. With Michael’s help, Alex’s new leg was closer to reality, and with his belongings delivered from Biloxi, he had what he needed to deal with the drive, but he would have to bother Michael for that, too. The totes were in the bunkhouse. 

Alex and Kyle had spent summers sleeping and playing there, clashing with Flint and Gregory or hiding from Jesse. It used to be their piece of real estate. Now he knocked, like a stranger. 

“Yo,” called Michael from inside, “you need something? Why didn’t you text?” 

“I need to get into a tote.” 

Tinny music from a phone speaker didn’t cover the scuffling and wooden shudder of a chair dragged across pine boards--and then the sound of a bolt being thrown before the door opened. Michael backed away to let Alex in. “Help yourself. It’s your stuff.” 

Michael had taken over the bunks opposite the door, the bottom one made up with blankets. That had been Greg’s, back in the day, Flint got the top bunk, and as the youngest, Alex had made do with the middle bunk. Now the two upper bunks served as shelves for odds and ends, a suitcase, a couple boxes, a crumpled blanket. 

The other set of built-in bunks climbed the wall opposite the fireplace. All three performed as storage now, with the totes on the lowest bunk. Alex rummaged through until he found what he wanted: a CPU tower, keyboard, mouse, and small monitor. As Alex replaced the yellow lid, Michael was at his elbow. “Where do you want this set up?” 

“Kitchen table.” 

“What’s wrong with your little family of laptops?” 

“Nothing, and I want to keep it that way. Remember this?” Alex paused to dig in his pocket. He held out the drive. “I’m going to see what’s on it, but I need a computer that’s isolated.” 

“From the network? Just turn off the wi-fi, right? Unplug the router.” 

“This could have its own wi-fi so I’m not taking any chances.” He slid it back in his pocket. 

Michael helped with the fetching and carrying, but as soon as Alex had everything configured to his satisfaction, he settled at the table and said, “I’m good, thanks.” 

“So. What’s so important that your dad had to hand-deliver it?” 

“It’s nothing, I’m sure. Propaganda for his campaign to keep me in Roswell.” Michael leaned against the counter, making himself comfortable and not taking the hint, so Alex added, “Hey, I know I was interrupting something when I knocked. Don’t let me keep you from it.” 

“Nah, it’s nothing important.” 

What he’d interrupted, Alex wasn’t sure. Besides the built-in bunks, Michael had a low bureau, a folding card table, and an old wooden captain’s chair. Alex had heard Michael get up from that chair, and when he stepped inside, the table had been cluttered with loose paper, gray with penciled writing and doodles, a scatter of wires and simple switches and tiny bulbs and, oddly, a bottle of nail polish remover. The mess probably had to do with the UFO Emporium, and Alex was genuinely curious, but he refused to overstep his prerogative, especially regarding Michael’s expectation of privacy. 

“Seriously, I don’t want to pry,” said Alex. 

“Okay, it’s cool, it’s...all cool.” He left the kitchen agreeably enough, but his smile was brittle, and he knew he was being dismissed. Alex didn’t like tugging on the authority inherent in the contract between them, but he didn’t want Michael exposed to whatever Jesse was pushing, either. Alex didn’t know what was on the drive, but he did know it would be ugly. 

And it was ugly. Ugly and a travesty. 

Knee-jerk, xenophobic patriotism justified with vague, highly edited reports going back to the middle of last century. Nebulous dangers to humanity. A mission of constant vigilance begun decades ago against an unspecified infiltration, formed by an elite group of protectors who apparently just happened to be at the right place at the right time--or the wrong time. A casualty report of U.S. military personnel listed gruesome deaths by immolation and “burns of unknown generation.” The casualty report for “enemy combatants” had been censored nearly black but was included, Alex was sure, because the tally of the dead, the wounded, and the escaped showcased not only the valor of the brave troops but also the undefined but continuing menace of a redacted incident in--

1947\. 

Alex dropped his face into his hands. He groaned, and then laughed, soft and pained. 

Grant Green yowling on his podcast from a booth at the Crashdown about poisonous contrails, mind-control antennas from Alaska, and how UFOs used crop circles to ruin American farmers made much better entertainment and had better original sources. The World Weekly News existed, at least. 

Alex could not reconcile the nonsense about UFOs dug deep in Roswell’s history with the existence of Master Sergeant Jesse Manes: soldier, patriot, father and unrepentant abusive homophobe. Would he have to accept that Jesse suffered a mental illness profound enough to fuel conspiracies about aliens? Or that the same mental illness might force Alex to reevaluate years of hatred for his father? 

Alex would rather believe in aliens.

Isolating the thumb drive from the network had been the right move. It did have wi-fi capabilities built in and a couple fun little tricks that could have torn apart a system with less security. Also interesting: the tech was smart and military; the data was not; and Alex recognized a trap when he saw it even as he chewed on his doubts about his father. If Alex was the target of the trap, why use nonsense about UFOs as bait? And if his father was finally exhibiting symptoms of delusion, why did he hand over the data on a piece of tech he shouldn’t have access to? 

Alex stopped his strained laughter before it went maudlin, fetched two laptops, and began tearing into the mystery. 

Michael interrupted him much later, bringing a gust of cold air when he entered. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I’m gonna make a sandwich. You want one?” Without waiting for an answer he started pulling open cabinet doors and drawers and digging into the fridge until the counter was cluttered with food and condiments and two plates. It was a low-key hustle to avoid Alex’s bitchier moments when he thought he was being coddled. Alex had come to recognize the tactic only recently, though it had been going on since...Alex couldn’t pin down when.

The ploy worked, of course. Alex had been hacking through military systems for hours, and now that he was reminded, he was hangry enough that he would have taken it out on Michael had he asked directly. “Yes. Thanks,” he said and backed out of the rabbit holes he’d been exploring on the internet, saved his work and powered down all the machines, stacking the laptops and setting aside the desktop’s keyboard and mouse. He blinked into the present, like waking up from a nap.

Michael quietly assembled sandwiches at the counter, close enough to touch but his back was pointedly to Alex. He offered no quick run-down of the agenda for tomorrow or conversation for the sake of filling the silence, which he often did if he’d spent the day running errands. He turned and set a plate in front of Alex. The sandwich was fat with tomatoes, onions, and lettuce--no, spinach--on top of the meat and cheese, and the side was a handful of baby carrots.

“That’s not how you sneak vegetables into a meal,” Alex said. 

Michael snorted and slid a shot glass of pills and a full glass of water next to Alex’s plate. “There’s vitamins in there, too,” he said as he sat with his own plate at the opposite end of the table. 

They both tucked in, hungry, and the quiet between them was easier. With one half of his sandwich gone, Michael nodded at the CPU tower in the middle of the table and asked, “So, was it nothing? On that thumb drive?” 

Alex paused before his next bite. Michael had a sentimental connection to the idea of UFOs and aliens wrapped up with his dead parents. Alex found it all ludicrous, but he refused to ridicule Michael’s memory that had pulled such soft yearning from him. “The data was nonsense, so I don’t know why he put it on that drive. I’m trying to find out where it came from.” 

“The data?” 

“The drive.” 

“You’re saying he didn’t get it at Best Buy. Or wherever it is the Air Force gets its computer supplies. But you knew that already or you wouldn’t have wanted that bad boy.” He nodded at the CPU tower again. 

“I don’t trust anything that comes from my father,” agreed Alex, “but this is a bit much, even for him. The tech smells more like intelligence than anything else. It’s definitely beyond his pay grade.” 

“But not yours?” Open expression, no smirk; Michael was honestly curious. “I don’t know much about military types, but don’t you have a higher rank than your dad?” 

Coming from Michael, the question unleashed a tight smile. “Oh, yes. And I think the tech on that drive is above my pay grade, too, but it’s not outside of my experience. War happens in cyberspace more than you’d think.” 

“And here I thought you were flying fighter jets like in Top Gun. Breaking speed records, rocking the aviators.” 

“Top Gun was the Navy.” Alex’s smile widened. “But yeah, I can rock a pair of aviators if you want. Add them to the grocery list.” 

“It’s Albuquerque this Friday so we won’t even have to shop off a Wal-Mart spin rack. You need something fancy to go with that shiny new leg.” 

_New leg._ Alex was still hurting from the fitting, but even the concept of being able to walk again filled him with restless energy, ready to explode like a greyhound out of the gate. Not that he had particularly lofty aspirations. He just wanted to walk into the Crashdown for a burger and fries and a shake. Finally say yes to a visit from Maria--or to Maria. He could tolerate the Pony to see her. He could walk up to the bar, and she would see him instead of his injury. 

It was Sunday evening. Friday was less than a week away. On Friday he would return to Roswell for real.

* * *

**Roswell November 2013**

Jim caught Michelle’s eye and knew he’d be in the doghouse on this one. It was Thanksgiving, and he had invited Jesse Manes to dinner. “Every last one of his boys are away,” he cajolled her. “He’s all alone, and that has got to sting during the holidays.” 

“How can you tell,” she muttered. “The man has no soul.” 

“It’s just dinner. He won’t stay long. He doesn’t eat dessert.” 

“And there’s your evidence.” 

Michelle had a point. Jesse was a hard man, doing a hard job. He and Jim used to be on the same page regarding the mission, but lately, Jim was starting to accept that Jesse had gone beyond his purview. Beyond the pale, even. And maybe some of that was because his sons had all flown the nest. Maybe an evening of normal human interaction would bring back a little of the man Jim remembered from hunting trips, years ago. 

Jesse was polite, and seemed to enjoy dinner, and he did turn down the dessert, but he did not leave, so Jim invited him out to the firepit in the backyard. “I don’t keep whiskey around anymore or I’d offer you a glass.” 

“I’ll manage.” He glanced back through the window at Michelle cleaning up. “An old case of Michelle’s crossed my desk the other day. I was hoping you could enlighten me about it.” 

Jim frowned. He’d had his good years and bad years, depending on whether he kept a bottle of Ten High in his desk drawer or not. “How old? It might have to be a pretty distinctive case for me to remember anything about it.” 

“Three abandoned kids. June, 1997.” 

That one did ring several bells, alarmingly. Jim could connect the dots instantly, and he didn’t like what he saw. Lying wouldn’t help, though. He knew Jesse’s resources. “Yeah, she didn’t catch the case, but she helped work it.” 

“Does she know where they ended up?” 

“No,” he said. “God, no. They went into the system. Did you try there?” It was a weak deflection, but logical at least. 

“The records are sealed.” Jesse picked up a stick and stirred the coals in the firepit. “I’d like you to ask her. Get some details.” 

“Interrogate my wife,” Jim said flatly. 

“I didn’t say interrogate.” He tapped the ashes off the end of the stick and set it down.

“Oh, screw you.” There were lines and there were _lines_. “You got Shepherd command breathing down your neck because it’s been years since you broke your pet egg, and now you're grasping at straws. Abandoned kids? Jesus.” 

Jesse nailed him with his flat stare. “If they close down Roswell, I doubt you’ll have access to Caulfield anymore.” 

“And how much longer until that closes, too? The conditions are appalling and the assets dwindle by the day.” 

“That’s an exaggeration.” Jesse inhaled deeply. “Tell me, are you losing your conviction?” 

Jim wished there was a bottle of whiskey between them. “I’m a realist.” 

“Yeah,” said Jesse. “You are, aren’t you.” He picked up the stick again. “I hear Kyle is doing well in med school.” Red coals collapsed, and a tongue of flame shot up. “Congratulations.”

* * *

“Alex Manes. This has been a long time coming.” 

Alex turned from where he waited for an elevator in his wheelchair. Kyle Valenti walked up, wearing a white coat with a stethoscope hanging out of the pocket. He was as good-looking as he’d been in high school. Alex expected him to be as much of an asshole, too, though that might have been more about his own pissy mood than Kyle’s adult character. The man had wished him a speedy recovery on Facebook. Maybe that was character growth.

Alex didn’t care. He regarded him for a long moment as Kyle loomed over him, waiting for a response, then said, “Not long enough, really,” before he resumed waiting for the elevator. 

“Okay, fair, that was awkward,” he said. “How about a do-over.” 

Alex scoffed. 

“No, really. You got a minute? I’ll buy you a coffee. There’s something I want to ask you.” 

Alex again let silence express his disinclination. He had just finished with the psychiatrist, ticking a box from a list of daily annoyances related to recovery, and now the day gave him a different one. At the same time, he _had_ just finished with the psychiatrist, who reminded him, again, to feel his feelings in the moment instead of dwelling too much in his own head. 

Another thought occurred: this might be an opportunity. “Okay, I’ll let you buy me a coffee.” Maybe Kyle could answer a question or two himself. Alex stopped broadcasting his pissy attitude, but the elevator ride to the cafeteria was awkward.

Kyle carried two coffees to a corner table and kept quiet until they were settled. “You’ve been living in the cabin.” 

“Yes.” 

“My father’s cabin.” 

“Mine now. Is this what this is about?” 

“Not really. Maybe,” Kyle said. “Yes, but not in the way you think.” 

“And what is the way I think?” 

“C’mon, you’re making this harder than it needs to be.” 

“Harder than, what? Giving me shit during high school?” Alex hadn’t thought of Kyle’s high school bullying in years. It was a perk of perspective, to let those lesser hurts slough away, but he was petty enough to give Kyle a rough time.

Surprisingly, Kyle ducked his head. “That’s fair. I was an asshole to you.” 

“You were a homophobic dick,” Alex corrected, “but that’s ancient history, and I really don’t care what you think anymore.” 

“I’m not homophobic,” Kyle retorted. “I grew up.” 

“Congratulations.” He eased up on the sarcasm to ask, “How about we cut to the question part of the conversation? What did you want to ask me?

“Uh, okay.” Kyle inhaled as if centering himself. “Your father contacted me just after New Year’s. He had some questions about you living out there. At the cabin.” 

Alex set the to-go coffee cup on the table. He forced his jaw to relax. “Like what?” 

“Like were you renting from me or from my mom, and when I told him Dad left the cabin to you, he didn’t seem too happy,” said Kyle, “not that he ever is. You know. Resting rage face. That apparently hasn’t changed from when we were kids.” 

He and Kyle did share a history that included more than high school. They used to be friends. Maybe this was a coincidence he didn’t have to look in the mouth too closely. 

“So what else did you tell him?” 

“Only that it was a surprise to me. It’s not like I ever liked talking to him.” Alex snorted, and a flicker of that history passed between them. Kyle explained how, in his steep decline before death, Jim Valenti had added a rider to his will leaving the cabin to Alex Manes. Kyle had known nothing of the change, and he had little interest in using the cabin himself even if he could have found the time. He thought his mother rented it out for extra income. 

“Which she did,” Kyle said, “until you came home. That’s when she told me about the will. You know,” he continued, sarcastic, “in case I had a sudden impulse to go hunting and be disappointed I couldn’t use the cabin.” 

“Are you? Disappointed?” 

“I could have sold it to pay off some school debt.” Kyle swirled his cup, looking deep into the dregs. “So yeah, I was a little ticked off, but Mom and I hashed it out. The thing is, Dad wasn’t perfect, and I knew that. No one is.” 

Jim Valenti used to drink cheap whiskey with Jesse at the cabin, but he wouldn’t stop at one, like Jesse did. He was what Alex’s mom called a happy drunk, and even drunk he was by far the preferred father during those childhood cabin visits because there were worse ways to be an imperfect parent. Kyle gazed off, dwelling in the same moment, maybe. 

“Hey,” said Alex. “You wanted to ask me something?” 

“How do I get your dad to leave me alone?” 

“What?” 

“He actually asked if I wanted to contest the will. Who the hell does that? That was the second time he tracked me down and it’s disturbing how he can find me when there’s no one around.” 

“The second? How many times did he track you down?” 

“Three. The last time was Monday. He said he was worried about you living out there on your own.” 

“I’m not alone and he knows it.” _He made it happen, for fuck’s sake._ “Everyone knows it.” 

“And your Companion’s charming, I’m sure,” said Kyle. “But one might say your dad had a point about you being disabled and dealing with PTSD.” 

“And one might be full of shit,” Alex said, heated. “You’re one of the few people who should know better than to believe him.” 

“Hey, stand down, I’m just repeating what he said.” Kyle raised his hands. “I would have told him it was none of my business even if I was worried, which I’m not.

“But,” he added, leaning forward, “creepy as he is, he sounds logical even when he’s insulting you. The way he described you, if I hadn’t seen you here at the hospital I might have worried. And the will, too. It was offensive for him to bring it up, but it did get me thinking about Dad when he got sick. How he died.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the funeral,” said Alex. 

Kyle fiddled with his coffee cup. “I read the email you sent Mom. It meant a lot to her, what you said about him. And to me.” Alex mirrored Kyle’s interest in his coffee and let him talk. “It was a tough time when he got sick. He wasn’t rational, so when your dad mentioned it, I thought maybe I should ask questions about the will. I don’t know if he was sane by the end, but Mom thought Dad was in his right mind about the cabin because he was helping you.” He looked up. “And I agree with her, about the cabin at least. I’m glad you have it.”

“That’s…” Alex cleared his throat. “I appreciate that. I wish I could’ve seen him before he passed.” 

“He wouldn’t have recognized you. He was delusional, talking nonsense. He didn’t even recognize us at the end. So don’t take me wrong, you deserve the cabin,” he repeated, “but my dad wasn’t legally of sound mind. If someone did want to push the issue, maybe they could.” 

“They couldn’t. Could they?” Thoughts on how to defend the cabin flashed instantly though his imagination, which he brushed away. He had money. There was no reason why he had to stay at the cabin, but it had become his home. The mere idea that Jesse could ruin that for him hit a deep nerve. “Could my father actually challenge the will?” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works. Mom would lock him up first if he tried anyway.” 

“You guys don’t deserve to deal with his shit.” 

“You don’t, either,” Kyle said, painfully sincere. “You know that, right?” 

Alex chuckled, weirdly heartened Kyle’s effort. “They teach you that in doctor school? Or is this part of your redemption for high school?” 

Kyle snorted. “Oh, screw you, Manes.” 

“Seriously, though. I don’t know what the hell goes on in my dad’s head, but I’m pretty sure he’s bothering you to get at me. I’ll talk to him, get him off your back.” 

“I can handle it, but I thought you should know.” 

“I appreciate that.” 

Without purpose, the conversation wound down quickly, and Alex was distracted as he thought about what he should say to Jesse about Kyle Valenti. A text was the best option. Jesse wouldn’t do what Alex said no matter how he said it. Why subject himself to more exposure? He settled on _I’m not moving. Leave the Valentis alone_ and hit send.

Kyle was still attempting small talk, as if keeping Alex company while he waited for his ride. Before it got too painful, Michael found them. 

“Hey, you ready?” 

“Yeah.” Alex released the brakes and rolled back from the table. He decided to be the better man and instead of speeding away, he introduced Kyle to Michael. “This is Kyle Valenti. His parents owned the cabin.” 

“Yeah, right, Animorphs guy,” said Michael. Kyle stood, and Michael stepped behind Alex’s chair. Alex could feel Michael’s hands rest on the handles of his chair, holding it steady. 

“Oh, so this is your Companion. Riiiight,” said Kyle, bright with epiphany, “of course he’s a man.” 

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m a man? You sound pretty sure of yourself there.” 

Alex snickered as Kyle dug himself deeper and said, “Well, you know, I just assumed the matching for Patron and Companion would, uh, respect things like, you know. Orientation.” But at the word _orientation_ , Alex’s smile slid away. As he had expected, he wasn’t in the closet anymore. Most people who knew him in high school assumed he was gay, but only a handful knew for sure. Those few in the know would expect his personal Companion would be a man, but the reverse proved his queerness from the other side of the equation: if his personal Companion was a man, he must be gay. 

“You’re respecting orientations all over the place there, aren’t you?” Michael said. “Try respecting people’s privacy, because you shouldn’t assume about Alex, and you sure as hell don’t know shit about me.” 

“Whoa, hey, I don’t mean to assume. I really don’t know how the Companion thing works.”

Michael radiated angry silence over Alex’s head, but Alex sat a little taller in his chair. A hot mess of emotions rattled the closet in his heart where he stuffed his feelings, but on the whole he felt lighter. The secret was out; it was done. 

“Actually,” said Alex, “the whole Companion thing is...complicated.” 

*

The four days between his run-in with Kyle and his new leg waiting in Albuquerque lasted approximately four months. 

Alex’s mood was a roller coaster of anticipation, impatience, and the occasional drop into terror at the irrational fear that somehow, out of all the doctors he had to prove himself to, this one would say _no, you can’t_. He worked hard on his PT, agonizing over getting his form perfect and pushing his endurance until Michael dropped his usual cajoling and hollered, “Will you chill the fuck out already? You’re gonna strain something if you keep up this shit.” Alex’s answering snark was weak because he knew Michael was right, so he distracted himself by digging through the internet to find dirt on Jesse. He sorted laundry. He added to the shopping list by going through every corner of the cabin, looking for deficiencies. It wasn’t hot enough yet, but why wait until you _need_ ant traps? 

By Thursday nothing held Alex’s attention. He had no appointments in town to break up the day. He’d been staring at screens so much over the past week that he could barely stand reading notifications on his phone. Facebook messages, mostly: well wishes from Liz, another demand from Maria for a visit. A short text exchange with Clay. And the notification for his appointment at the prosthetist on Friday, January 19th. He threw his phone across the couch. It bounced off the armrest and landed on a cushion. Alex thrashed his way upright and did his best to stomp around the coffee table on crutches and immediately jammed his toe on the corner. 

He yelled, then he swore, and then he fell back onto the couch. From there he thwacked the table with a crutch. It didn’t move. He thwacked the table again, and then his pent-up frustration took over: _thwack! thwack! thwack!_

He dropped the crutch, teeth clenched, equally pissed at the table and the crutch. 

Michael, who had been stepping softly around the cabin when he couldn’t escape to the bunkhouse, stopped whatever he’d been doing in the kitchen and stared, saying nothing.

“What?” said Alex, sullen.

“Okay. Enough with the temper tantrum.” 

“What are you going to do, send me to my room?” 

“No. Get out.” Michael came out of the kitchen and twitched Alex’s coat off its hook by the door. He tossed it at Alex, who caught it on reflex. “Put your coat on and get the hell out of here or I swear to God I will throttle you.” 

“You can try,” Alex snapped. The creeping energy eating into him filled the space between him and Michael. 

“Seriously. Get out. Sit on the porch swing. Howl at the moon, I don’t care, just get out of my face.” 

And that was it: Alex had finally broken Michael and witnessed the moment when he threw in the towel. Alex shouldered into his coat and slammed the back door behind him as he stepped into the low, cool light of a January afternoon. He sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled a thin white cloud. _Haaah_. 

He crutched around the cabin to the front porch and sat on the swing, his head clearer already. Alex hadn’t broken anything, and Michael wasn’t quitting--he knew that. But Michael was right that Alex needed to get the hell out of the cabin. 

He really needed to see friends. Go see a movie. Eat anything besides the half-dozen meals Michael knew how to cook. Laugh at anything other than his own ridiculous self. Get laid. 

Maybe he should have taken Michael up on his offer of a blow job. He doubted if anything could have happened in that moment even if he’d accepted, because at the time, his body wasn’t spending energy on maintaining his libido. But now? Alex refused to have sex with a Companion, whose consent was taken for granted because of a legal contract, but if he offered again, refusing Michael would take a lot more effort. 

Even as the afternoon light slowly dimmed, the long view to the mountains remained clear, melancholy but calm. His ears and nose were chilled, and he tucked his hands into his sleeves. His sanity returned, bit by bit. He would get his new leg. He would tackle the next step-- _ha!_ \--to reclaim his life. But that was tomorrow, and he had to live with himself right now, and hey, next visit he could tell his psychiatrist he learned something. He might be able to control most variables in his life, but he also had to accept that sometimes he couldn’t plan for a poor fitting or a mystery from his psychopathic father or an IED on a road that was supposed to be clear.

Maybe he’d stay out until the night came on fully. Maybe he’d see some shooting stars. 

A musical noise came from the window at his back. A note, another, the same note pulled flat, then sharper, and then a loose jangling chord. 

“What the hell?” asked Alex as he came in from the front porch and through the bedroom, following the rambling music. “You can play?” 

“I can stop,” Michael said, “if I’m overstepping.” He strummed the guitar again. “Seems a shame to let this get dusty when someone could be playing it.” 

“Uh.” Alex's ears burned from the warmth of the fire. He couldn’t tell if he was angry or surprised. He landed on envious. “You can play if you want.”

Michael hitched along the couch, leaving the end nearest the fireplace open. “Sit down. Warm up.” Alex made his way around the coffee table, and Michael started another progression of chords, nothing Alex recognized, just a shifting trail of pleasant harmonies with no minor turns. 

“What can you play?” Alex settled on the couch, baking in the heat thrown off the hearthstones. 

“Not much. It’s kinda zen, for me. I thought it might be for you, too.” He paused and made to take off the strap, but Alex stopped him and said, “No, my fingers are stiff from the cold.” As if daring himself, he said, “Play something for me.” 

“Is that an order?” 

Michael’s amusement was always dressed in smirks, but this smile was bolder. Alex watched his mouth shape around it, and then relax, open and a little soft. Alex glanced up, their eyes met, and every last iota of heat between them sizzled with potential. 

Michael dropped his head to stare at the guitar, his shoulder rounding to separate them from the charged moment. He said, “I told you, I don’t know many songs.” 

“Improvise, then,” said Alex. He relaxed into the couch, disappointed but not unhappy. He was glad Michael had turned the job of taking care of him into a partnership, and he accepted how Michael was right to maintain the balance. 

Later, alone in bed, for the first time in months, his touch was not perfunctory, and he remembered how his body could feel good, really good.


	6. Chapter 6

“I got it,” Alex said. His pride at being able to step in front of Michael and press the elevator button could be seen from space--Michael assumed, not that he’d been in space lately. Alex had to lean on the single crutch, and Haima had warned both of them that this was not the end of the process. There would be further fittings, continued PT and occupational therapy, medical and mental health checkups.

At first, Alex could only wear the leg for a few hours a time, a few times per day. Michael had paid close attention to Haima’s instructions, not sure if Alex was processing everything in the excitement of getting the prosthesis. He knew Alex would certainly review the pages and pages of instructions later.

Michael let Alex walk in front of him, hands up, ready to help stabilize Alex if he wobbled. They moved slowly as they exited the elevator, but he could feel Alex concentrating on each step, his form correct and precise. When they reached the truck, Alex passed his crutch to Michael, then carefully climbed in.

As they pulled onto 285, Alex started wrestling out of his coat. “I don’t want to just go back to the cabin. I want to go out.”

“Out to eat? Or to a store?” A trip to the grocery store didn’t sound like a lot of fun for someone who’d been almost housebound for months, though maybe Alex was excited to walk the aisles.

“The Wild Pony, actually. Have you been there?” Alex asked.

Michael turned the truck’s heater down. “I’ve stopped in a couple of times to get a beer when I’m in town.”

“The owner, Maria, is a good friend of mine. Well, was a good friend. She might be upset with me.”

“Why?” Why would anyone be angry at an old friend returning to town as a hero?

“She’s offered a couple of times to come visit, and I--” Alex shook his head. “I couldn’t deal with it.”

Alex spending time with anyone who wasn’t his Companion or a medical professional sounded like a good idea. It made Michael think about how narrow Alex’s world had been--and his, by extension. At least he got out, did the shopping and the laundry, spent time in town at the Emporium. Alex went to the hospital in Roswell or the hospital in Albuquerque. That was it. And that was his call. He hadn’t wanted to visit any other places while he was still struggling on crutches.

Michael also wondered if he’d been avoiding any chance of running into Jesse in town, but Alex hadn’t said it, and he hadn’t asked.

For a Friday night, the Pony’s parking lot wasn’t too crowded. Michael pulled into a spot by the door and slipped the disabled parking placard on the truck’s rearview mirror. Alex huffed but opened his door.

“Wait until I get there,” Michael insisted. “You just got this leg.”

“I don’t need to wait, that’s the whole point,” Alex grumbled, but he stayed in the seat until Michael came around, ready to catch Alex if he stumbled.

Alex pivoted right and slid down, setting both feet on the ground at the same time. Michael waited while Alex tested his balance, rocking back and forth a little.

“Good?”

“Great.” Alex didn’t smile that often, and Michael supposed he hadn’t had a lot to be happy about recently, but the grin on his face made Michael’s breath catch. He had to do something besides stand in front of Alex and enjoy looking at him. “I’m getting the crutch.”

“I don’t need the crutch!” Alex called back, already halfway to the door.

“I’m getting it anyway!” Michael pulled one of the elbow crutches from behind the passenger seat, shut and locked the truck, and followed him.

Alex was on two legs again, but he still moved slow, so Michael caught up to him before he’d taken three steps inside. A few people were playing pool, a few more sat in the booths along the wall, but Alex headed straight for the bar.

“Well, look who finally decided to drop in,” said the bartender. Michael was sure she hadn’t been working any of the other times he’d had come in, because he would have noticed her. And remembered her.

“I got tired of my rustic chalet.” Alex gingerly eased himself onto a padded barstool. Michael made sure he was stable before sliding in next to him and propping the crutch between them.

“And this is your...Companion?”

“Who can speak for himself,” Michael pointed out.

“You’re right.” She extended a hand to him. “Maria DeLuca.”

“Michael Guerin.” So this was Alex’s friend. Soft hands, but strong. Dark hair, warm brown skin, a collection of long necklaces, and a teasing smile.

Maria swatted playfully at Alex’s arm. “What are you doing here? I’ve been asking you for weeks, and now you show up without any warning?”

“We just decided to drop in, now that I’ve got my fancy new leg.”

“Ooh, let me see!” Maria circled the bar. She probably didn’t notice the slight hesitation before Alex pulled up his right pant leg a few inches, letting her inspect the prosthesis. “That’s amazing. It’s so good to see you.” 

They hugged, and Michael thought about how good it must be for Alex, being touched in a non-medical context. And, if he was honest, it reminded him how long it had been since he’d touched anyone but Alex. He’d considered hooking up with someone in Roswell, but the logistics were a little complicated. He couldn’t take them back to the cabin, and bar bathroom blowjobs had lost their appeal in the last few years.

Plus, it hadn’t felt right. What he had with Alex--it was a commitment. A contractual one, but it still made him responsible for Alex’s health and well-being. Trying to have a relationship with someone else seemed like a good way to fail two people simultaneously.

“Can I get you a drink?” Maria asked, behind the bar again. “On the house.”

“That sounds amazing,” Alex said.

“You shouldn’t be drinking on your meds,” Michael reminded him.

Alex rolled his eyes. “It’s just a beer, Guerin. It’ll be fine.”

Grabbing two bottles from the cooler, Maria set beers in front of them, popped open the caps, and poured herself a shot of gold tequila. “To finally being home,” she toasted, clinking Alex’s bottle with her glass. Michael saluted them with his beer before drinking deeply.

“Should I ask how your recovery is going?”

“Please,” Alex said with an even more dramatic eyeroll, “I’m so tired of talking about my health. Tell me what’s happening here. Any hot gossip?”

Maria leaned over the bar with a conspiratorial air. “Lindsey and Justin got drunk and flew to Vegas to get married, but no one knows if they actually got married or just yelled at an Elvis impersonator. Including them.”

Michael tuned out and looked over the room. He recognized these people--ranch hands, farmers, small-town law enforcement, blue collar workers. Guys who got their paycheck on Friday and headed right over to the bar to drown their sorrows. He’d been in worse places. In the Pony, the drunks mostly had smiles on their faces. Didn’t mean they wouldn’t turn ugly, but the bouncer by the door scanned the crowd constantly, and Maria, though she was talking to Alex, kept one eye on the room.

She slipped away to refill a drink, and the stool squeaked as Alex swiveled to face Michael.

“You’re probably bored to death listening to us talk about people you don’t know.”

“Nah,” Michael said, toying with a cocktail napkin. “I wasn’t listening.”

Alex laughed, a free, resonant sound, and maybe it was the beer kicking in, but Michael had never seen him so...happy. It set off a twinge in his chest, in a place deep inside him that didn’t often see the light. He wanted Alex to keep laughing and smiling. He wanted Alex to be that happy all the time.

And he had to admit, as he studied the fine planes of Alex’s face, it wasn’t the only thing he wanted. He’d picked up the guitar, mostly curious to see how much his fingers remembered. He hadn’t played in years, not since he had to pawn the guitar he owned for rent money. But then Alex had come in, and sat next to him, almost close enough for their shoulders to touch, and the room had been quiet and warm, and Alex’s smile had drawn him in close.

It would have been so easy to slide off the sofa, down onto his knees. To look up at Alex while Alex touched his face, slid his fingers into Michael’s hair, coaxed Michael’s mouth open. To take Alex deep and make him feel good.

So easy to forget about the contract.

But he’d remembered, and that was probably for the best. It was one thing to sleep with your Patron because the contract required it, but a romantic relationship between Patron and Companion was an even worse idea than dating someone while on a contract.

“I’m gonna…” He pointed towards the bathrooms, and Alex nodded in response. When he got back, Maria had returned and was finishing some story, rings and bracelets flashing in the light as she gestured.

“How’s Liz?” Judging from the bottle, Alex had drunk about half of his beer. If he tried to get another one, Michael would have to step in, which would ruin the night’s laid-back vibe.

Maria sighed, shoving her hands in her hair to push it back from her face. “Liz is still in Pittsburgh, working on...something involving rats? Or maybe pigs? I literally cannot understand most of what she does, but she sends links to news articles, and it seems very impressive.”

“Does she come back to visit often?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, about once a year or so.” Maria propped herself up on the bar, placing her elbows carefully to avoid spills. “I think she comes less than she used to because she’s not as worried about Rosa anymore.”

Alex turned to bring Michael into the conversation. “Liz and Rosa--their father owns the Crashdown Cafe. Rosa’s a waitress there.”

“And an artist on the side,” Maria said. “She painted my wall out there.”

He’d noticed it. Color exploded off the corrugated metal wall that faced the patio. Vibrant blues and oranges and reds, images that somehow worked with the uneven surface. A stylized pony rearing next to the door and text that he’d never bothered to read scrawled over the door and around the sides.

“Liz and Maria and I all went to school together,” Alex said. Michael catalogued another sweet smile, the one that snuck out when Alex was reminiscing. “Rosa was older than us and the coolest person we knew.”

“Unfortunately, that coolness came with a side order of substance abuse. It took a few years and a few trips to rehab, but she’s been sober for five years now. She says it makes her art better.” Maria cast an ironic look at her empty shot glass and Michael’s bottle and cleared both of them from the bar.

“God, I haven’t seen Liz in ages,” Alex said, reclining against the chair back. “2014, maybe?”

“She’ll be at the reunion,” Maria said. “You have to come this year, since you’re finally in town.”

Alex groaned. “It’s ten years, isn’t it. I can’t believe it’s been that long.”

“We’re getting old, old man.” Maria giggled as she ducked Alex’s half-hearted swipe.

“Speak for yourself,” Alex said. “Part of me is brand new.”

Maria’s laugh trailed away. Michael figured she wasn’t sure how seriously to take Alex’s joke. To derail the uneasiness, he said, “We’ve been talking about getting a mural done at the Emporium. You think Rosa would do aliens?”

“Are you kidding?” Maria gasped. “She’d paint angels and the baby Jesus if it got her a job that big.”

“Gimme a pen.” Michael wrote his number on another napkin and passed it over to her. “Tell her to call me.”

She tucked it into her back pocket. “Thanks. She’ll really appreciate this. And you,” she continued, turning on Alex with a mock glare. “You need to call her too. Or stop in at The Crashdown. She’d love to see you.”

“It’s at the top of the list,” Alex said. “I’ve been dreaming about those enchiladas since I left the state.”

Maria straightened and grabbed a towel, wiping down the bar in three quick swipes. “I should get back to work, but let me know when I can come visit.”

“Bring Mimi?”

“If I can.” Her smile dimmed, so whoever Mimi was, Michael figured it was a sensitive subject. 

“Give me a wave when you leave, okay?” Maria continued. She hoisted herself up and leaned across the bar to kiss Alex’s cheek. “And don’t be a stranger.”

Alex waited until Maria was carrying a round of shots to one of the booths. “Mimi’s her mother. She was like a mother to me, when I needed it. She’s got some kind of dementia that no one can identify. It’s tough on Maria.”

“That sucks.” Michael knew Maria’s type too. Always on the edge of financial security, he’d bet, especially with a sick mother. Constantly working, figuring out ways to earn money on the side.

“I’m glad she’s got Rosa. Sometimes I felt bad about not being here, but even when Rosa was having problems, she always showed up for Maria. If a waitress calls out sick, or Maria needs someone to watch the place while she deals with a missing delivery--”

“It’s good to have someone like that.”

Alex drained his beer. Setting it down with a thud, he turned and pinned Michael in place with dark eyes. “Do you?”

“No,” Michael admitted.

“Me either.” Alex swayed a little on his stool, though Michael thought it was fatigue more than anything else.

“You’ve got me to get your tipsy ass home.” He held his arm out in front of Alex, and Alex frowned at it only slightly before using it to steady himself as he climbed off the stool. “Told you not to drink with your meds.”

“It’s fine,” Alex argued as he slipped his arm into the elbow crutch. “I’ll just sleep a little sounder tonight, which will be a nice change.”

In fact, he dozed off on the way back to the cabin and didn’t stir until Michael parked the truck.

“Don’t move, Sleeping Beauty,” Michael warned him. Alex made some sounds that might have been words, if he hadn’t mumbled them into his sleeve.

Alex didn’t climb down so much as slide, stumbling into Michael before he could right himself. They weaved towards the door, Michael trying to guide Alex without actually carrying his weight. He did cheat and use a little telekinesis when Alex listed to the left, away from the crutch’s support.

Up the ramp and into the cabin, straight back to the bedroom. Alex sagged onto the bed and flopped backwards.

“Alex. Alex.” Michael poked at his left leg. “Alex.”

“What, Michael.”

“You gotta get changed, man. You can’t just fall asleep with your leg on.” The terrifying list of instructions and warnings included two pages on caring for the residual limb. At a bare minimum, Alex needed to take the prosthesis off and put on a clean compression sock. It would be better if he showered, but as he prepared to suggest it, Alex wiggled his body around and planted his head on the pillow.

“Alex. Come on. At least take it off.” He stuck out a hand and waved it above Alex’s face until Alex opened his eyes and groaned.

“Ugh, fine.” Alex took Michael’s hand and let him pull him up, swinging his legs to dangle off the edge of the bed.

“Can you get your shoes off while I go grab a compression sock?”

Alex looked up at him blearily. “I only need to take off one shoe. The other one goes with the leg.”

“It’ll be hard to get your pants off if you don’t take off both shoes.” The moment the words left his mouth, he braced himself for a joke about wanting to get into Alex’s pants, but Alex lowered his head to focus on his shoes, hiding his expression.

When he returned, Alex had the shoe off his left foot and the laces of the right untied. “I can’t get to that one, with the way my leg bends. Or doesn’t bend.”

“It’s okay, I got it.” He set the sock and a wet washcloth on the bed next to Alex and knelt to work his shoe off the prosthesis. How strange, that touching something inorganic felt so intimate, but when he wrapped his hand around the ankle, he heard Alex inhale above him as if he could feel the pressure on his skin.

Michael cleared his throat. Should he offer more help? Trying to make a decision with all of the uncertainty swirling around in his head was like trying to pick a specific sound out of a blare of white noise. “You, um. Pants next?”

“It’s okay, I think I can manage.” Alex put his hands at the waist of his sweatpants.

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. Alex had called him into the bathroom a couple of times, before he got used to transferring to the shower seat. But it had felt more like a locker room then, where nudity was unavoidable and uneventful.

“Can you…” Alex, blushing, had his pants at his knees, his black boxer briefs visible under the hem of his shirt.

It didn’t feel like that now.

He pulled the sweatpants down to Alex’s ankles and worked them off the prosthesis, then the rest of the way off. He longed to speed up the process, so he could be out of this room, away from any decisions about what he should do, but he had to ask permission before he touched Alex’s leg.

“You want me to take it off?”

“Please,” Alex whispered. He looked uncertain, eyebrows drawn together in a near-frown, but he didn’t move, only his chest rising and falling with his breath.

When Michael pressed the pin, he heard the vacuum seal break in a brief hiss of air. He kept waiting for Alex to stop him, to say that he could handle it from here, but Alex just waited. So Michael reached high up on his thigh and tucked his fingers between the silicone and Alex’s skin. As he rolled it down, little flutters of hair brushed against the backs of his fingers.

Finally, with a tug, the prosthesis slipped off, and he leaned it against the nightstand. Then above the knee, to remove the sock.

Without speaking, Alex handed him the washcloth.

Michael ran it gently over his skin, removing any residue of sweat, checking for abrasions or redness. It was the closest, most tender experience he’d ever had with another person--not because it was sexual, but because Alex trusted him enough to be this vulnerable. To accept his help not because he was injured or weak, but because Michael was offering.

He stood, both relieved and disappointed that it was done.

“Everything needs to be cleaned,” Alex murmured, already lying back on the bed.

“I’ll take care of it,” Michael said. “Just go to sleep.”


	7. Chapter 7

Alex bought a used Jeep Cherokee the week after Valentine’s Day. Michael dropped him at the hospital early for PT before heading to the Emporium. Maria met Alex at the hospital and they had lunch with Mimi before Maria drove him back to the cabin, but on the way, they passed a string of car dealerships and used car lots, and he asked Maria to stop. An hour later, Alex spun the keys around his finger. Maria fluttered at his elbow. “Are you sure? Are you really sure?”

“Maria DeLuca, I am a better driver with one leg than you are with two, and if you hadn’t already dropped off Mimi, she would agree with me. I’ll take you for a ride and prove it,” he said, and did. She stopped questioning him, but she also followed him all the way to the end of the access road that led to the cabin’s driveway. She wished him luck before turning her truck around, back end fishtailing in the dirt, and he kicked up dust all the way to the cabin.

Michael popped out the door of the bunkhouse as if he’d been kicked and started arguing before Alex opened the Jeep door. Alex was used to Michael’s low-key mother-henning; this was not low-key mother-henning. “Alex! What the hell? I thought Maria was driving you home! Whose is that?”

“It’s mine.” He grinned. 

“How are you even driving?” Michael’s hands gripped the open window as he peered in, forcing Alex to lean back or get a mouthful of curls.

“Legally. Move.” Alex opened the door and shoved it enough to push Michael out of the way. 

Michael withdrew enough for Alex to get out and then hopped into the driver’s seat himself. “You didn’t get a gas pedal adapter installed.”

“I use my left foot. It’s fine.” 

“And you think that’s not gonna screw up your hips?” 

“My body. My choice.” Alex had used that gem a few times to get Michael to back the hell down from some of his more terrifying nanny moments. Alex appreciated how seriously Michael took his well-being, and he had come to accept the necessity of Michael’s help, but the Companion contract was for two years. Only a few months had passed and already life without Michael looked hazy. As weirdly idyllic as it had been so far, he also couldn't imagine living in the cabin long term, either, not with his father circling like a shark around a lifeboat. This was a respite. It wouldn't last. Alex needed autonomy. 

Michael backed off about the driving, but he had opinions on the make, model, and year of Alex’s Jeep, none of them good, and Alex replied, “What do you want for three thousand bucks?” 

“Three _grand_? You totally got ripped off. It’s twenty years old, it’s got--” he ducked to read the odometer “--over two hundred and fifty thousand miles. It’s burning oil, you can smell it.” 

“It’s not twenty years old. Considering what you drive, this is a step up. It’s even got a thirty-day warranty.” 

“Like that means anything. Where’d you find it? Craigslist?” 

“I got it at a lot. Ray’s out on 70.” 

“Used car lot will leave you high and dry.” 

“Good thing my Companion is a mechanic, then.” 

“Yeah, well.” Michael got out of the car and slammed the door. “You parked me in,” he complained, then grumbled about widening the gravel patch where he parked the truck. 

Alex made dinner that night, humming along to an iTunes playlist made in high school blasting through a bluetooth speaker and singing along every time he caught Michael’s sour look. He didn’t know why Michael took exception to this evolution in Alex’s independence, and that evening, he was too euphoric to care. A car was freedom. A car returned another dimension of normal to Alex. 

A car meant he could go into town for leisure instead of medical appointments, and a few days later he called Maria in the afternoon, when Michael was at the Emporium. “Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Yeah? Which one?” 

“Black Panther.”

“Superheroes? No,” said Maria. “You’re on your own for that.” 

“C’mon. Going to the movies alone is just sad. I need someone to help me eat a giant bucket of popcorn.” 

“Bring Michael and you won’t be alone. I’m sure he’d love to eat out of your bucket.” 

He ignored her innuendo. “I don’t even know what kind of movies he likes.” 

“I mean, does it matter?” 

“Well, yeah! If I’m not going to make you come with me to see a movie you hate, I’m not going to make him sit through a movie he hates.” 

“Ah, but you said you don’t know, so ask him what kind of movies he likes,” she said. “He’s really cute, you know.” 

“Is he? Is he really? Gee, I hadn’t noticed when I was signing a contract that includes the right to have sex with him whether or not he wants to.” Alex poured on the sarcasm, but it didn’t cover his embarrassment. “Okay, that got...weird. But it doesn’t matter. He’s there to help me, not hold my hand at the movies.” 

“I thought that’s what Companions did. Not the part where they sleep with people,” she said, cutting off his protest, “I know it’s not like that with you. But, like, companionship. Go out to do fun things and keep you company.”

“I’m not going to date someone who can’t say no.”

“I didn’t say anything about dating.”

“It’s not like-- He’s been there for me. He helped me get back on my feet. Literally.”

“You know, I think he’s already made a choice. He’s got a bad case of resting heart-eyes when he looks at you.” Alex wouldn’t say _heart-eyes_ , but there were moments, like the night after stopping at the Pony. Some might blame the mix of alcohol and meds, but Alex didn’t lie to himself. Michael’s touch had been different, taking care of him. Michael had been more than gentle--he had been tender. 

She dogged him about Michael’s suitability as a date until he cut her off, laughing in embarrassment as he said, “Fine. Fine! It’s still not a date but I’ll ask him. And we’ll go only if he likes Marvel movies.” 

“He’ll like the movie because you’re the one asking.” The _you idiot_ was implied. “When are you gonna ask him?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

“Ask him tonight.” 

“Maria…” 

“Ask him right now. I’ll wait.” 

“He’s not even here.” 

“Text him! And take a screenshot.” 

“No!” Alex was laughing again, like he and Maria were sixteen years old and watching the men’s cross-country team run past the alley behind the band room. The well-hidden romantic in him floated, he felt so light. His overdeveloped cynicism expected a disaster, but he was tired of negativity and shut it down. Even if it didn’t last, he wanted the moment. “This isn’t prom.” 

“Ask him tomorrow.”

“Bye, Maria.” 

“And film his reaction!” 

“Bye, Maria!” He hung up. It was just a movie. An excuse to get out of the house that had nothing to do with doctors. Good for his mental health. And Michael was a conscientious Companion. 

*

Alex did not ask Michael that day if he’d like to see a movie; Michael worked late for the Greens, driving half-way to El Paso to pick up a slab of rock supposedly carved with aliens wearing spacesuits. Alex didn’t see him until the following morning when he opened the back door at 9:30. 

“You’re up early,” said Michael, eyeing him on the floor.

“No, you’re late, shit, I lost count. Five. Six. Seven.” It was the third set of reps. Alex strained a little. “Eight.” 

“That’s a new one.” Michael paused, hands on his hips, and watched Alex turn out of the position, bracing himself before he stood, hopefully not looking too much like it cost him. After months of living together in the cabin, Alex had absolutely no dignity to be saved in front of Michael, but he did want to master using his new leg as gracefully as possible. “Nice dismount,” Michael said, so maybe some dignity to lose. Michael ambled into the kitchen. “How much longer are you gonna be? You want eggs?” 

“Yeah, eggs sound good.” 

Planks were last, then stretching to cool down. He set himself into the pose, forearms flat on the exercise mat. Cool air brought in by Michael had stirred the air gone stale and humid overnight. Alex concentrated as he counted off the seconds to his new goal: a full minute. Domestic clatter from the kitchen woke the cabin up. _Sixty_ and release. Michael muttered into the refrigerator. Alex lifted into his second plank. 

“There aren’t enough eggs for an omelette so it’s gonna be a breakfast burrito.” 

Sweat dropped on the mat between his planted arms. 

“You weren’t saving that avocado for anything, were you?” 

The count in his head began to speed up. He breathed. Slowed down. _Forty-one, forty-two, forty-_

“Shit, we’re out of bread, too.” 

One second at a time until he lowered again, trying to calm his breathing. 

“Unless you were gonna put it on a salad or something.” 

Today he would complete a set of three, both feet planted-- _and up_. Breathe. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._ He paced the seconds in his head, in the quiet, _ten_ , fuller drops darkening the mat. _Twenty_. 

“Your knee’s dropping,” said Michael. Trembling, Alex straightened it. “Good, that’s good. What are you at?” 

“Twenty-nine. Thirty.” 

“Fifteen left.” 

Thirty-two? _Fuck._ “Going-for-sixty. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.” 

“Knee,” Michael murmured again. 

At sixty, Alex rolled his shoulder and flopped onto his back, panting. “Fuck, that felt like a week.” 

Michael was standing right there, looking down at him. He tilted his head. “It’s paying off.” He wasn’t looking Alex in the eye. “So, are you saving that avocado for anything or can I put it in the burritos?” 

Alex flung his forearm over his eyes. “Do whatever you want.” He swiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. Michael hadn’t stepped away, and he was still not looking at Alex’s face. “Or you can help me stretch.” 

“Uh, what.” 

“Help me stretch.” 

“No, I mean which stretch.” 

“Planks are hard on the hamstrings.” 

Michael knelt next to the mat. “They’re hard on everything. Right leg?” 

Alex pulled his left leg to his chest, knee bent. Michael pressed his right thigh to keep it flat against the mat. The heat of his hands penetrated Alex’s thick black running tights, one above the knee, the other half-way up the thigh. He watched his own hands so Alex watched Michael. Michael was casual when he’d breezed in; now his mouth was pressed closed with nothing more to say about avocados or breakfast. 

Alex released his left leg. Michael scooted over without comment and held that leg flat as Alex raised his right into his chest, hands under his knee. 

“You going into town today?” Michael asked, breaking the charged quiet between them.

“No. Yes. No--I mean, I want to.” He finished the stretch. “I want-- So there’s a movie I want to see.” 

Michael settled back on his heels. “Yeah? Which one?” 

“Black Panther.” He waited for a reaction but got none and blurted, “Do you like movies?” 

Michael grinned. “Do I like movies? Well, I dunno.”

“Oh god.” Alex threw his forearm over his eyes, mortified. “Forget I asked. I just don’t want to go alone.” 

“So go with someone.” 

“Maria doesn't like superhero movies.” 

“She doesn’t have to like them, she just has to like hot guys in tights, which isn’t that hard.” 

Alex lowered his arm. “True. But she still doesn't want to see it.” 

“Rosa might.” 

_I don’t want to go with Rosa._ “Do _you_ like superhero movies?” 

“I do like hot guys in tights, so in this case, yes. Yes I do.” 

“Okay. Good.” 

“So to be clear, you want me to go with you to the movies.” 

“It’s pathetic to go to a movie alone.” 

“Okay, gotcha.” Michael’s smile lost some steam. “Sure. Let’s see a movie.” He climbed to his feet. “Come and eat. Avocado’s going into the burritos right now.”

*

Michael did help Alex eat a bucket of popcorn, and he liked the movie, or at least he laughed and cheered when the rest of the audience did. He got up as the credits rolled, and Alex had to explain why everyone remained seated. “Okay, whatever,” Michael said, “but I’ve got to get rid of that gallon of Coke I drank, like, now.” While he waited, Alex considered messaging a Facebook group chat he let lapse after the surgery, three guys he met while at Robins AFB who liked movies or gaming, but the messages had stopped after his injury. They had all posted on his Facebook with the usual tasteless military well-wishes, but they’d also removed him from the group, and he hadn’t even noticed. 

He switched to the text chain with Naveed, who did keep up a conversation, and gave a quick review of the film. There wouldn’t be a reply soon; they were in different time zones, but the melancholy of watching his old life slip away bothered him less than he expected. The credits were rolling through the special thanks section and--sure enough--Michael returned, dropped in his seat, and complained, “How long _is_ this thing?” 

“All that CGI means there's a lot of names--sh, wait, here it is.” 

Michael glanced around at the rest of the die-hard fans still seated and back to the screen. He leaned close and whispered, “Why is Jesus in a hut in Africa?” 

“Shh!” Alex shushed, eyes on the screen to catch the scene and his body clenched because of Michael’s breath on his ear. 

As they poured out of the theater with the crowd, Michael continued his questions that proved he wasn’t familiar with superhero movies.

“Did you even like the movie?” Alex asked. 

“Yeah, I liked it; why wouldn’t I like it? It’s Shakespearian.” 

“Shakespearian? Okay, you have to back up that statement.” 

“It’s obvious,” Michael started but was interrupted. 

“Alex? Alex Manes?” Alex and Michael turned to a woman’s voice. She had exited the side door of the theater and converged with the stream of foot traffic. 

“Hello?” Alex asked, reaching for a name and coming up blank. She looked vaguely familiar, as did the woman who paused on the sidewalk with her. A man he didn’t know stood a little off the sidewalk, absorbed in his phone.

“Jasmine. We went to school together?” 

“Jasmine…?” 

“Jasmine Frederick.” She slid the back of her fingers along the curtain of her long, blonde hair with a practiced, flirty smile. 

“Right.” He drew out the word as he remembered she had belonged to a pack of mean girls causing drama with Rosa in high school. Liz had complained bitterly about them to Alex the spring of senior year. 

“I, um, read about you in the paper. You’re such an inspiration,” Jasmine said as she waved at his crutch. She turned to the woman with her, “Kate, you remember Alex Manes, right? He was in band? The one who played guitar? You were so good,” she gushed at Alex.

“I do remember,” Kate replied, her expression predatory, and he remembered that while Jasmine was one of the mean girls, Kate Long had been the leader. “And who is this? Your Companion, right? That’s so exotic to have a Companion. Who knew the army paid so well.” 

“You’re thinking of Flint. He’s in the army.” His tone cooled. It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for his brother, just one of a pack of military brats, even though no one who actually knew him had expected him to follow their footsteps into the military. 

“Right,” she said, drawing the word out, mocking. 

“Companion?” Jasmine looked around from Kate to peer at Michael, eyes big.

“My brother told me about it,” Kate explained. “One of the Manes boys with a Companion? And it’s a guy. Like, how surreal is that.” Alex’s gut sank. Ten years was a long time, but it was coming back to him: Kate was a real bitch. He remembered her bully of a brother, Wyatt, too, who was buddies with Hank, whose girlfriend Lindsey had seen Michael and Alex in the hospital cafeteria. Small town gossip--he knew it was only a matter of time for the word to get out, and here it was, returned to him on a sidewalk outside the movie theater.

“I’ve never met a Companion before.” Jasmine stared at Michael. “I didn’t know-- I mean, I thought Companions were women, like, in a harem or something.” 

The man lingering behind the women put his phone away and stepped up. “That’s because you’ve never left the state in your life.” He gave a little wave. “Hi. Forrest. I’m Kate’s cousin. So, you’re Alex the inspiring; good to meet you. And you’re…?” he asked Michael. 

“Lucky to be out of my cage and wearing pants.” 

Jasmine giggled uneasily and Kate smiled sharper. Kate observed, “Well, I have to say you don’t fit the cliché, but Alex is still a lucky boy.” 

“Knock it off, Kate,” said Forrest. He aimed a winning smile at Alex and Michael. “She’s just pissed because it was my turn to pick the movie.” 

“No big deal,” said Alex, and shot Michael a look when he felt Michael’s hand on his back, pushing. 

“Well, this was nice,” Michael added, “catching up with people I don’t know, but we have somewhere to be.” 

“Michael,” Alex chided. 

“Seriously, no harm, no foul,” Forrest said. Kate’s face soured and Jasmine’s brow crinkled in confusion. 

“Sure,” said Alex and yielded to Michael’s hand guiding him along the walk. In the parking lot, he demanded, “What the hell was that?” 

“What the hell was what?” 

“Getting pissed off because they were messing with you.” He unlocked the Jeep and slid behind the wheel. “You got to let stuff like that roll off your back.” 

“No, I’m pissed because they were messing with me as a way to fuck with _you_.” Michael slammed his door shut. 

“People don’t know how to talk about the leg.” Alex started the engine.

“No, they wanted to eat you alive.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“You're so _inspiring_ , Alex; that’s so _exotic_ , Alex.” Michael glared ahead but darted glances at the driver’s footwell, evidently still dubious about Alex driving with his prosthesis now instead of his left foot, even after Alex explained, showed a dozen YouTubes of amputees driving, and then demonstrated on the ride into town.

“That’s not exactly going to get them anywhere.” 

“No? What about Mr. No Harm No Foul? Because as soon as he figured out the metrics of a man with a male Companion, he elbowed his way right to the front.” 

“Forrest? No, he wasn’t--” 

“He totally was and your gaydar sucks,” Michael said, disgusted, and finally Alex recognized the jealousy and grinned at the road ahead. 

*

In the course of his recovery, Alex had experienced good days and bad: all of them bad right after the injury with the ratio changing over until he had mostly good days than bad, but two days after the excellent movie night, Alex’s father knocked at the back door of the cabin. 

Jesse Manes had continued his bizarre recruitment campaign of threats, ultimatums, and the occasional flash-drive, all delivered in person. He had driven to the cabin the day after Alex got his leg, again sitting in his car for long minutes before coming to knock. Alex had been moving slowly, having overdone things the night before with his new leg and a beer. Michael had answered instead, taken the drive from Jesse and sent him on his way with a door slam. This time, Alex met his father at the door on his own two feet.

Jesse swept his empty gaze over Alex, nodding at his feet. “Congratulations, son.” 

“Spare me the pleasantries, please.” 

“No pleasantries, just an observation. At this rate you’ll be off disability sooner than expected. Your country needs you back at work.” 

It was none of his business when Alex might come off the temporary disability list, and the comment put him on guard, so he ignored it and asked, “I assume you brought more offerings?” 

“Can I come in?” 

“You cannot.” Alex tightened his grip on the doorknob. 

“Had you not been...injured, you would still be in Iraq serving with the men you left behind.” Before Alex could react, he continued, “They should be coming home soon, your brothers-in-arms. If all goes well.” 

His right hand curled into a fist around the handle of his crutch. “Get out.”

“Here.” Jesse offered a flash drive, as he’d done before, holding it up between thumb and forefinger.

“That’s my cue.” Michael popped up out of nowhere and laid his hand, broad and warm, on Alex’s back. He guided Alex from the doorway and put himself between Alex and Jesse.

Jesse’s expression tightened. He stared at Michael while talking to Alex. “Your Companion continues to overstep his place. Shouldn't he be tending house? Looking after your creature comforts?” 

Alex smiled. “My Companion is multi-talented.” 

“I’ll make sure Alex gets it,” Michael said and nipped the drive out of Jesse’s grasp in a sleight-of-hand move that looked as if it leapt into his own while Alex watched. “Good-bye!” he said, and shut the door. 

Alex accepted the drive. “Thanks.” 

“For what? I like pissing him off. I should rig a camera next time to catch his expression when I slam the door in his face.” He nodded at Alex’s hand. “You want me to get your computer set up in the kitchen?” 

“No, I’ll do it,” he said, distracted as he carried the equipment to the table. Fuck his father and fuck his sly threats. _Men you left behind._ What would he know about brothers-in-arms? Master Sergeant Jesse Manes had never deployed in his military career. He was a fixture at Walker Air Force Base and had been forever. 

The incongruity of his father’s service with his own and his brothers struck him. Alex had never examined his father’s career because Jesse was the monster of Alex’s childhood. That role had been so enormous Alex never looked past it. And now he felt caught out.

 _If all goes well,_ his father said, as if he had the power to affect things halfway around the world. Alex dismissed that possibility, but now he wondered why Jesse’s career was so unusual. How he had hijacked Alex’s duty orders. What was the significance of the drives and their data. 

He could examine the drive, at least. It was most likely another invasive piece of tech that held another batch of nonsense data. The last one had included an apparent cypher based on symbols in non-linear configurations. He’d treated it as a puzzle and got nowhere. This flash drive appeared identical to the other two and began to install drivers spontaneously before he stopped the attack and performed the usual scans. 

The first file he opened was a short black and white video showing a gloved and gowned arm holding a chunk of curved glass over a flat white surface, a table draped in white cloth and scattered with irregular fragments of the same glass. The hand turned the glass one way and another. It had jagged edges as if broken off a much larger piece and appeared to be illuminated from within. Symbols glowed along the surface, and then as it was turned through another rotation, the symbols glowed from within the glass. He closed it and moved to the next file.

Michael emerged from the bathroom. Alex hadn’t noticed he’d left. He minimized all the tabs.

“I can make myself scarce,” said Michael. “Wouldn’t want to be exposed to all those government secrets.” 

“It’s not like that. He’s fucking with me, he has to be.” 

“Hey, I’m not looking to get all in your business, but if you do want help,” Michael said, “and you don’t have to kill me after you tell me, I’m your multi-talented Companion.” 

“Good to know.” Alex wouldn't have to kill him, but he still didn’t want to contaminate Michael’s nostalgia for his lost family with Jesse’s fearmongering. He waited until Michael left the cabin before he opened the other files. Don’t fuck with his memories of family, Alex thought. Let him have the UFO Emporium.

Alex had made no headway into the origin of the flash drives over the next week. Since he’d disabled the malware and could access the data, he put it aside and spent his time investigating his father instead. He found disturbing rumors of a nameless, nightmare prison attached to his father’s name on the dark web, but it was the cabin that gave up a bizarre secret on a Saturday morning when Alex smashed his toe against the coffee table twice in ten minutes. Michael heard him swearing and came in. 

“Who the fuck puts a coffee table this close to the couch and then bolts it down?” complained Alex. His smallest toe still stung. He wondered if the nail had been torn off. “It wasn’t like that when I was a kid. We should have ripped it out when we got here.” 

“Oo, you said fuck. You _are_ pissed.” Michael squatted low and braced his weight on the side panel. The table didn’t move, but the end panel broke away in his hands and he tumbled back on the floor. Alex scoffed at him, stretched out on his ass and mouth open in surprise, but then Michael said, “Oh my god. Alex, look at this.” 

The table was not bolted down. The table covered a trap door.

*

The trap door covered a long, narrow chute with a thin, rusty metal ladder that dropped into a high-ceilinged, rectangular room. Michael descended first and handed Alex his crutch before he groped along the wall and flicked a light switch. 

Dim yellow light from table lamps illuminated a double bed with a trunk at the foot, desk and two chairs, and a tall white wardrobe. The soft furnishings in shades of white, red, and pink looked like a movie set in the tall, concrete box of the room. 

“This is not what I expected,” said Alex.

Michael investigated the trinkets on the desk, scuffed his toe at the white shag rug under the steamer trunk. He turned back to Alex. “So what did you expect? Torture devices? Skeletons?” 

“That’s one cliché. I don’t like this one any better.” 

“Who did you say owned this place?” 

“The Valentis. Jim and Michelle. They were both law enforcement. This--” Alex gestured at what looked like a young woman’s comfortable bedroom “--doesn’t make any sense.” 

Alex knocked the side of the chest at the foot of the bed with his crutch; it sounded full, but it was padlocked. He stooped and tugged--it didn’t open--then continued on to explore the wardrobe. Medical supplies neatly stacked inside added to the mystery. Alex hefted an IV bag.

“That is...not a skeleton,” said Michael. “Makes me wonder what’s in the trunk.” He crouched and fiddled with the lid.

“It’s locked,” Alex said, as he returned the bag and poked at the other contents. 

“No, it’s open.” 

Alex turned. “It was locked when I checked it.” 

“Guess you didn’t pull hard enough.” Michael unthreaded the padlock and opened the trunk. Alex joined him. Inside were baby clothes and baby blankets in pinks, greens, and whites, a teddy bear and a few other plush toys, and a photo of a pink-swaddled infant in a man’s arms. Michael pulled the photo close to examine it in the dim light. “Still no skeletons.” 

Alex reached for the photo. The man’s face was cropped, and there was nothing written on the back, but his uniform and badge identified him: Sheriff Jim Valenti. He told Michael and added, “But he doesn’t have any daughters. It was only Kyle.” 

“Maybe she died,” said Michael.

“Maybe. But it still doesn’t explain all this.” The tableau felt less creepy and more like a museum piece, dusty and forgotten and sad.

They examined the rest of the room: opened all the drawers, checked under the bed, moved items in and out of the trunk. Other than the dusty relics of an unknown past, the room held nothing. 

One lamp had not illuminated at the flick of the wall switch. In the interest of being thorough, Alex turned it on. The light was a little brighter than the dull bulbs of the lamps on the night tables and, surprisingly, cast a spiral on the wall from a shape cut into the lampshade. 

Alex recognized the symbol instantly. It was a spiral with rays emanating from the outermost ring. He thought of it as a stylized image of the sun, and he saw it every day. The same symbol had been carved deeply into the wood of the door, a new detail he had noticed when he arrived that first day with Michael. It had been burned into the leather of his keyring, as well, a cutesy embellishment, he thought, or maybe sentimental, and dismissed it. He called Michael over.

“It’s the same as the door,” Michael said. But it wasn’t, not exactly. A curve like a sliver of moon cupped the spiral and resembled symbols Alex had seen in the files from his father. Michael ducked to look at the inside of the lampshade. “Pencil marks. Someone drew it on the inside of the shade. Probably used an x-acto knife to cut it out.” 

Alex ran his fingertips over the light spiral. In the center was a divot in the wall. Alex tapped his finger over the indentation and the wall returned a hollow little cluck.

“That’s not concrete,” said Michael.

Alex knocked around the spot, considered the sound, considered the coincidences piling up, and then rammed his crutch into the divot until it broke through. Michael stepped back, surprised. “Whoa! You keep that up and you will find skeletons,” he said. Alex pulled away handfuls of crumbly plaster painted to look like concrete until enough light shined into the hole he’d made. 

“There’s something in there.” The gleam of a smooth surface reflected dim lamplight. Alex reached in and removed a heavy slab of shaped glass about a foot long and nearly as wide. He brushed away the dust, and the glass coruscated with colors, symbols rising to the surface, far more beautiful than in the black and white of an old film. 

“I’ve seen this before,” Alex said, and then glanced at Michael, recognizing instantly his mistake. 

“Where?” Michael demanded as he stared at the glass. 

Alex frowned, considering what to say and how to say it. He examined the piece more closely. He could not be positive that it was the same fragment as in the video from Jesse’s flash-drive, but the shape and size were the same, obviously broken along the edges. As his fingers stroked the surface, the symbols swirled. Michael’s hand drifted close but didn’t make contact. The symbols brightened and roiled under his near-touch. Michael paused, tense, and then the symbols returned to a random swirl when he stepped back. 

“No, really, Alex. How,” Michael cleared his throat, no longer demanding but tense, “how did you see this before when it was buried in a wall for God knows how long?” 

_This is his history_ , thought Alex. Nonsense or not, Michael latched on to anything UFO-related, desperate to build any kind of connection to his dead family. Why this shard featured in an old film on a flash drive provided by Jesse Manes, Alex still wasn’t sure, but Michael had a stake in the reason why, if there was an answer to be found. 

“Let’s get out of here and I’ll show you.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m, uh. I’m gonna head to the Emporium. Lots of stuff to do. You’re okay here by yourself?”

Alex, hunched over at the table, looked up from his laptop distractedly. “Yeah, sure.” That posture was going to kill his back later, but Michael needed to get out of the cabin more than he wanted to argue with Alex about his already impressive core strength.

“Cool. Call me if you need anything, or if you need me to pick up something in town, or...whatever.” He winced at the sound of his own voice spouting inanities and just gave up, spinning on his heel and grabbing his keys.

He felt better once he was in the truck, the mere act of driving tricking his body into thinking he was doing something useful. But what the hell was he actually going to do?

Michael’s thoughts whirled around as he drove towards town ( _bunker_ and _shard_ and _Alex_ and _secret_ ). There was an actual fucking bunker under Alex’s cabin, complete with furniture and, oh yeah, an alien artifact hidden in the wall. He’d frozen when Alex pulled it out, that shining piece larger than any of the others he’d seen. And he’d already used his power to open the padlocked trunk, like an idiot.

Then, Alex had finally shown him a file--one single file--from the flash drives that Jesse Manes kept bringing. Video footage of the shard. In the possession of the military, once upon a time.

The iridescent shards, including the one that Michael had acquired in Albuquerque, were the highlight of the Emporium’s collection. He’d figured there were more pieces in the desert, waiting to be discovered, or in dusty boxes hidden at the back of some closet.

Not in a cabin that used to be owned by a Roswell sheriff and Alex’s asshole father. Both parts of that freaked Michael out. Alex had told him that Jim Valenti’s wife was sheriff now--did she know about the bunker and what was hidden behind the wall? Did Jesse Manes know the truth behind the ‘47 crash? Did the whole U.S. military? If Alex figured it out, would he tell them?

The need to run thrummed inside him. He wanted to grab all of the shards and point his truck west, drive for twelve hours without stopping. But the shards could only tell him so much on their own. A whole ship had crashed. There had to be more. Something to put them into context. And he’d never get that context unless he stayed in Roswell.

Plus, running meant leaving Alex behind. Since he’d gotten his prosthesis, Alex was more independent and mobile. But he still needed Michael. He couldn’t live alone yet. And they’d been discussing renovations to the cabin to make it more accessible. If he left, Alex would have to move into his father’s house, at least temporarily. And he would hate for Alex to go through that.

That left him with the status quo. Trying to find alien artifacts, learning everything he could, and keeping one foot out the door.

*

Michael tightened the screws securing the painted wooden pedestal. He straightened up and pushed at it, then pushed harder until he was satisfied that it was stable. At least he could still put his hands on something and fix it.

He’d spent most of January and February repairing several of the Emporium’s interactive exhibits. Most of them dated from the 80s and early 90s, old CRT monitors running 8-bit games and fuzzy videos. But everything old was new again--at least, that was what Graham and Grant kept saying.

That theme carried through in the decor, all of the exhibit rooms decorated with dark walls and ugly neon stripes. The Greens insisted that it was the right vibe, throwing out references like “Tron” and “Swatches” and “Trapper Keepers,” none of which meant a thing to Michael. All he knew was that he’d installed approximately a million light fixtures in the ceilings and walls to provide the effect of twinkling stars. Theoretically, he had input into decisions because of his investment. But Graham and Grant were far more interested in his money than his opinion.

Michael had worked in the exhibit rooms lately, the displays ranging from ridiculous to nauseating. He could handle crop circles and styrofoam flying saucers. Staging an alien autopsy, no matter how fake it looked, made Michael want to take a sledgehammer to the whole room. He’d dumped it on Graham as soon as he could. And Grant had taken charge of the most important exhibit--the recreation of the crash.

The flying saucer took up most of the space in the center of the room. Michael was damn sure the alien craft hadn’t looked like that, but the Greens bought into the kitsch. Flying saucers everywhere. Mannequins of gray, big-eyed aliens reaching long fingers out to scare the credulous and amuse the jaded. The big freestanding saucer actually spun and lit up when you pressed a button on the display, and ominous music played from an interior speaker. A smaller-scale version mounted on one of the walls let viewers examine it closely to see the windows on the craft, little compartments that might hide propulsion systems or weapons.

It was weird, having the defining event of his life treated like it was History with a capital H. It left Michael unsettled at the best of times. And right after Alex found a big alien artifact was hardly the best of times.

He didn’t want to go back to the cabin, not yet, but he had nothing pressing to work on at the Emporium. Some stuff remained untouched because Graham insisted on supervising it. And he was filled with that weird restlessness he often got in town, like an itch beneath the skin.

He headed to one of the back rooms to see if he could find news articles to sort or frame for display. As usual, Grant had fifteen different things scattered across the table. But Michael realized as he got closer that it was a lot of stuff he hadn’t actually seen yet. With a sigh, he sat and started sorting through the clutter. Most of it was surely junk, like the charred circuit boards he tossed in a box on the floor. Some of it could be used in the room dressed up as the radio station that reported on the crash, where visitors could press a button and hear the original broadcast. The metal discs were meant to go in the display case of “implants” removed from supposed abductees.

Almost at random, he pulled a mildewed scrapbook off the table, part of an abandoned self-storage lot Grant had purchased. As he flipped through the thick pages, he noted the dates--all the way from 1947 up to 2002.

Local newspaper clippings did hold some value to the Emporium. They painted a picture of the events of 1947: a bright light in the sky, an explosion at Foster Ranch. Local law enforcement had responded, but the military had quickly established a cordon and classified everything. Crashed weather balloon, they claimed. They’d later refined that to “post-war nuclear spying balloon,” but neither explanation had silenced the conspiracy theorists.

Once he got past the first few pages, the articles covered suspected incidents of alien activity around Roswell. Dead cattle. Abductions. Prominent figures replaced with shape-shifting lizard people. The Greens already had prints of anything that was interesting, and the rest of it was useless.

Until he flipped a page and saw his own face.

**Do you have information about these children?**

Holy shit. It was him and the two other children he’d been found with.

He remembered, didn’t he? Waking up, cold and scared. The other two. Walking, knowing which way they wanted to go without having to speak. The bright lights of a truck blaring in front of them, bouncing off a metal sign by the side of the road.

Warmth, blankets and clothes. People talking in a language they didn’t understand. Being scared and confused, but feeling the other two with him. Part of him.

And then they were gone.

When he was eight, a caseworker told him that a fire had destroyed the original group home. Michael had already been sent to a facility in Albuquerque, but the other two children had died in the fire. He’d tried to find out more when he turned eighteen, but any records that survived the fire were sealed.

That was that. No parents. No siblings, if they even had been related to him. Nothing.

He dropped the scrapbook like it was suddenly painful to hold, and it landed face-up on the floor, still open to the same page. He leaned down to pick it up and close it and just make it go away. Grant and Graham would never miss it.

But as he held it over the trash can, he reconsidered. He had nothing from that time. And the article, as pathetic as it was--was proof. That he hadn’t always been alone.

It was easy to pry the article out of the scrapbook, the glue faded and brittle. He folded the article in half, then in half again, and placed it gently between the folds of his wallet.

*

The half-finished mural covered one wall of the lobby, the smell of wet paint permeating the space.

“Not bad, Ortecho.”

“Thanks so much, _Guerin_.” She accompanied the faux-cheerful voice with an equally fake smile. “I value your feedback.”

“If you value your bank account, you’ll learn to accept my feedback.”

She flipped him off with one hand and kept painting with the other. He liked Rosa. She was a smartass, and sometimes she spent hours painting and snarling at anyone who got close, but she showed up on time, and the mural looked promising. Fortunately, the Greens had agreed that the mural should match the more ornate and traditional lobby and event space, not the violent colors of the exhibit rooms.

“You still on track with the timeline you gave us?”

Rosa stepped back and tucked a flyaway strand of hair back into her orange bandana. “I think so. Those weirdo twins approved the design, so as long as they don’t change their minds, it should be done a couple of weeks before the reopening.”

“Weirdo?” Michael began to protest. “They’re not that...okay, yeah, they are.”

“There’s a ton of twins around town. It’s this strange Roswell thing. The Greens, the Evans, the Harjos. The Gunthers, those guys who show up at flea markets and stuff with custom boots and belts.”

“Right,” Michael said, nodding as if he had any idea who she meant. “Those guys.”

“Whatever, Guerin.” She flicked her brush in his direction, though not hard enough for any paint to actually hit him.

He watched as she worked, tracing over the sketch on the wall, outlining the white shapes of a shooting star in a night sky, the headlights of a military Jeep, a mysterious glow on a far-away horizon.

“What does a person do for fun around here?” he asked. With Alex’s increasing independence, Michael had some time to fill. He’d torn out a set of bunks in the bunkhouse, filling the free space with a work table, but he was missing a place to work on his truck. Other than that, he didn’t have much in the way of hobbies.

Rosa looked up from where she was crouched. “You mean, since I can’t go out drinking?”

“Not what I meant,” Michael said. “But yes. I know where the bars are.”

“Including Planet 7? I guess you’re learning a lot from Alex.” Maybe she hadn’t meant it as an insult, but it came out of her mouth with barbs.

Emotion flared through Michael, a sickening rush. Anger, at the insinuation that Alex would use him that way, and that he would let himself be used. Shame, at the position he’d willingly put himself in with his contract. 

Heat, at the thought of going to his knees for Alex, giving his body to Alex. Alex coming to him at night, reaching for him on the couch. Reminding him of his obligations as he grabbed Michael’s hand and tugged him into the bedroom. _Come on, Michael, I know you want it. You already offered once, remember? You knew what you were signing up for..._

“Not cool, Ortecho,” he managed after a minute. “You know Alex isn’t like that.”

She stared at him defiantly until the front crumbled and she flushed with shame. “Yeah, whatever. Sorry.”

After that he wasn’t interested in sitting around and watching her paint. 

*

Michael walked off his anger and frustration, bouncing from room to room, not really seeing anything. Stuck. He was stuck in this damn situation, in the contract, in the cabin or the Emporium, pulling away from Alex until the tie between them snapped him back. Snarling and chewing his own leg off wouldn’t do anything except make him bleed.

He retraced his last few days of work, looking for anything left undone, until he ended up in the crop circle exhibit. A picture frame on the wall caught his eye, hanging crookedly. One of Grant’s projects, half-assed as usual. A black and white photo, easy to miss among the screaming fonts on the pasteboard signs and the glass cases full of supposedly alien ears of multi-colored corn.

But as he reached to adjust the picture, he saw the picture--focused on it, really seeing it. The symbol flattened into the field was familiar. Three lines extending from a central triangle, each line ending in a small circular symbol. He’d seen that somewhere else recently. Where?

Michael dug through his memories of the last few months until he remembered the small piece of metal he’d gotten from Blake in Albuquerque. Where had that ended up? He checked the shards room, looked through all of the cases, and found nothing.

Back to the storage rooms, sorting through boxes of rocks and metal fragments. After an hour of increasingly frenzied searching, he still had nothing. He forced himself to sit and think methodically rather than give into his impulse to knock shit over until he found what he wanted.

In January, when he’d returned from that trip to Albuquerque, the Greens had been ecstatic about the glass shard he brought, interrogating him about the seller for half an hour until Michael got sick of it and walked away. He hadn’t seen the metal piece with the symbol since then--when he’d left it in Grant’s office.

Normally, Michael left the twins’ offices alone, not out of any sense of respect, but because they didn’t have anything he cared about. It took only a moment of concentration to unlock Grant’s door with his mind, and as soon as he walked in the room, there it was.

Sitting on top of a pile of papers. Of course Grant Green, co-owner of the UFO Emporium, amateur podcaster, and conspiracy theorist, used one of the few authentic alien artifacts in his museum as a paperweight.

He’d remembered right. Michael traced the lines etched into the dark gray surface. The symbol was less detailed than the one in the crop circle photo, but definitely the same. If this piece had been found near the shards that Blake’s boyfriend dug up, chances were sky-high that it came from the crash. This symbol, whatever it was, held some meaning.

If only he had any idea what the hell it was.

“I didn’t expect to find you in here.”

He startled at the noise and spun around to see Rosa leaning against the doorframe.

“Fucking hell, Rosa.” He took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart.

“I wanted to come apologize again for what I said.” She looked down and rubbed at a smear of paint on her forearm. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

“It’s just--you know what people say about Companions. That they’re...” She blushed and thought better of completing that sentence. “Anyway. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael said. He set the metal on the desk, but the movement caught Rosa’s attention.

“Is that something cool and alien? Let me see.”

Since it actually was alien, he didn’t want to show it to her, but he couldn’t think of a good reason not to. He dropped it in her outstretched hand, and she brought it closer to her face to examine.

“Hey, that looks like Max’s tattoo.”

“Who?”

“Max Evans. I mentioned them earlier. The Evans twins.”

“Twins?” Michael felt stupid that he’d been reduced to one-word questions, but he almost couldn’t keep up with what Rosa was saying, like it was in a foreign language that his brain had to process before extracting the meaning.

Rosa snorted. “Max has been half in love with Liz since high school. He used to mope around The Crashdown when she was working, sit there with his homework while his blonde rich bitch sister looked down her nose at us. Her birth parents could have been trailer-trash meth heads, for all she knew.”

“And he has this tattoo?” Michael demanded.

“Yeah.” She held the metal out for Michael to take back. “I asked him about it one time. Liz was home from college and we all ended up at a pool party. He said it was this thing he doodled in high school. Got it tattooed on his back when he turned twenty-one.”

Holy shit. He kept doing the math and then questioning the result, but the facts added up. “How old are the Evans twins?”

She crooked her head in confusion. “Same as Liz and Alex. Why?”

Twins, the same age as Alex, and therefore Michael. One boy, one blonde girl, adopted. An alien symbol important enough to tattoo on Max’s body.

The possibility hit him so hard that the blow choked off his breath.

Maybe they hadn’t died in a fire. Maybe they’d survived.

Maybe Michael still had a family.


	9. Chapter 9

The thick slab of glass Alex discovered in a hidden room under the cabin made a convincing argument for the importance of the data Jesse had been feeding Alex. 

Was the glass of alien origin? The beautiful colors and elegant shape that made a piece of art unearthly did not make an object extraterrestrial. Documentation of the fragment, as hand-delivered by Jesse, connected the shard to Jesse’s disturbing references to UFOs. And it had been hidden under a cabin that Jesse had access to for decades. 

The mystery was aggravating. And Michael’s reaction to it was unexpected. Michael had stared at the glass, but he didn’t touch it. When Alex showed him the black and white footage of that same fragment, ostensibly taken in 1947, he expected Michael to light up like the glass itself. Geek out to find a bit of history for the hobby that helped him cope with the loss of his family.

Michael did not light up. 

Distracted with his examination of the glass, Alex let it go. Michael announced he had business at the Emporium and left before Alex emerged from his laptop. Alex missed him when dinnertime came and went, mildly annoyed but mostly curious. It was Saturday. The Greens occasionally sent Michael on an errand but they rarely had him work at the Emporium on the weekends. At midnight Michael finally opened the door slowly, as if Alex was sleeping on the couch.

“Hey,” Michael said softly as he slipped off his boots and hung up his coat. Alex caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and beer.

He paused Netflix on his laptop. “Hey.” 

“You need anything? You good for the night?” Michael’s gaze flicked to the shard sitting on the coffee table, which had been set back in place to cover the ladder to the secret room below. 

“Yeah, I’m good. Are you?” 

“Huh?” 

Alex reconsidered the question. “Nothing, never mind.” He closed the laptop and began extricating himself from the couch. 

“No, what?”

“Nothing, really. Lock up when you’re done.” As he steadied himself on his crutches, he followed an impulse and nodded at the shard. “Oh, and can you put that away somewhere? I don’t want it just lying out.” 

Michael eyed the glass. “Where do you want me to put it?” 

“Wherever, it doesn’t matter; just keep it out of sight.” 

“Yeah, okay.” He didn’t reach for it. “You done with it?” 

“I took pictures, so pretty much. You hang onto it.” 

“Okay, sure. You need the bathroom before I shower?” asked Michael, and said nothing more about it. As far as Alex knew, the shard disappeared into the bunkhouse, the coffee table remained in its place, and they continued as if nothing unusual at all happened that morning.

But Alex could do nothing about whatever it was distressing Michael, not without invading his privacy. If Michael wanted to share details from his past, he would; he was a chatty man. He brought home anecdotes about the weirdos he bought UFO paraphernalia from, or the Green twins and aggravations associated with the renovation. He never mentioned the exhibits or artifacts, though, so maybe his reticence concerning the fragment wasn’t out of line. Alex could dig for facts about Michael online--and violate the trust of a person contractually obligated to be his body servant for the next year and a half.

No. He abused their casual intimacy too much already. He told himself he did not need Michael’s hand between his shoulders when they entered the hospital, or guiding a stretch during a workout, or casually manhandling him off the couch in the evenings to herd him to bed, but he wanted those moments, every last one of them. Even when he shouldn’t.

* * *

Albuquerque, September 20, 2014 

Alex knew the invitation would spark a fight with Kel, and it did. Kel wanted to introduce Alex to his family at his sister’s birthday party next week. Duty called and said otherwise.

“Your daddy snaps his fingers and you come running home?” Kel had an edge that Alex liked, but not when it got personal.

“The invitation came from my CO. I can’t refuse to go.” The event was an informal gathering, but it was hosted by Senator Robert Dorsey, former Air Force Major. 

“Oh, so you’re going to back out because of a work thing.”

“I’m not backing out; I’m being called away.” 

“Is that what you’re calling it this time.” Kel crossed his arms. 

Alex almost said, “It’s literally a dinner in my honor,” but didn’t. Kel wasn’t wrong: as their weeks together stacked up, Alex backed away. As much as he did not want to attend this dinner, he was still relieved it got him out of meeting Kel’s family and, a week later, Alex was single as he stepped off a plane in Albuquerque, garment bag over his shoulder. 

A woman met him outside the gate holding up an iPad with A. Manes on the screen. She zeroed in on him as he approached her and said, “Welcome to Albuquerque, Lieutenant. My name is Marissa Landry and I’ll be your Companion this weekend. Please, follow me, and I’ll take you to the hotel.” 

He had occasionally seen them on the arms of top brass but had never met a Companion personally before. Marissa was a young white woman, beautiful, poised, dressed in long, elegant, black trousers and top that exposed her arms to the shoulder and a glimpse of skin just above her waist. Her heels were as couture as her clothes. The details of the invitation had informed Alex to expect a driver, not a model. Unsure how to respond, he said, “Thanks for driving me around.” 

“It’s my pleasure.” Later that evening, she said the same thing when she arrived at his hotel early in a sharp little black dress to escort him to the Senator’s house. She entered when Alex answered her knock and asked if she could help him get ready. 

“Let me fix your tie at least.” 

“I can manage,” Alex said, side-stepping her. 

“It really is no trouble at all.” Marissa stepped with him, like a dance, and caressed his loose tie while she looked at his mouth. “You are a delightful surprise, Lieutenant Manes.” 

Her hands fluttered at his chest but Alex backtracked when she leaned in as if to kiss him. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but I can’t.” 

“It would absolutely be my pleasure.” 

Her sincerity was convincing. But how could he tell her how appalling he found the idea of a partner obligated to have sex with him? How he knew that--somehow or other--his father was behind the offer? That he was gay? He settled on, “It’s a personal thing, I--I’m not available.” 

“Men should take care of all their needs to function best,” she replied. “And it’s my purpose to see to your comfort. Meeting your needs doesn’t interfere with your relationships. Self-care is healthy.” 

“Mm, no, I’m, thank you but no.” 

“She’s lucky, your girlfriend,” Marissa said with a sigh. 

“I could still use your help,” he said, irrationally feeling like he’d offended her. “I’ve never been to a senator’s private party.” 

“Of course I’ll make you comfortable at the senator’s. It will be my pleasure.” She was as good as her word, deftly easing him through cocktail hour at a mansion. The intimate gathering included Senator Dorsey and a dozen men wearing suits but standing as if wearing dress blues. Women accompanied them all, and most of them had the look of career military wives, but two had Marissa’s sleek, young sophistication. 

Of course his father was there, surreal in a suit instead of a uniform. His companion was not a Companion but another career military officer, the only woman. Alex avoided them as the guests eddied around the room, but he knew it couldn’t last. The senator caught Alex by the fireplace where he stood talking with Alex’s CO, Major Allan Orozco, and introduced himself with a heavy handshake. Marissa remained at his side and over-familiar with her casual touches. 

“Congratulations on your nomination,” Dorsey said for one last pump of Alex’s hand. He looked about the room and called out, “Manes! Come here. I found your boy. You must be very proud. This is just the kind of behavior I expect from a Manes man.” 

Jesse’s jaw visibly clenched. “Yes, he’s done the name proud,” and Alex coughed so he wouldn’t laugh. 

“Well on his way to captain,” said Dorsey. “You have a bright future, son. Maybe your father would like to fill you in on the possibilities.” 

“This might not be the best venue,” Jesse deflected. 

“Just the broad strokes,” said the senator, and waited on Jesse expectantly. 

“There’s an opportunity waiting for you in Roswell,” Jesse said. “It’s...engaging work, there’s a fast track to promotion.” 

“That sounds,” Alex said, “interesting.” Jesse had somehow built a career at Walker Air Force Base in Roswell, and Alex refused to work anywhere near his father. “But I’m still at Robins for now.” 

“It’s an extraordinary job.” Dorsey dropped a heavy hand on Alex’s shoulder. “You sit with your dad and discuss it. You’ll want in. Oh, there’s Bria. Dinner is about to be served.” His hand slid off and he led the way into the dining room. Alex made sure to seat himself as far from Jesse as he could. 

Bria sat by Dorsey’s side, younger than Marissa and painfully styled. Marissa knew the woman on Orozco’s arm, Lucia, a short Latina with a curtain of hair to her waist and amazing arms, and chatted with her throughout the meal. Orozco leaned close, darted a delighted look at the two women and muttered to Alex, “We’re expected to make an early night of it.” Alex endured a toast by Dorsey, congratulating him on his nomination for the Air Force Cross, an honor he respected deeply but found cheapened in this dog-and-pony show. Before he left, Orozco told him, “I know this isn’t your kind of thing, but it will open doors for you. It already has.” 

Alex attempted to lose Marissa by checking Uber’s penetration of the Albuquerque market, but she shut that down with a sincere, “It’s my job to take care of you. We can leave right now if you’d like.” 

From across the room, in his seat next to the senator, Jesse looked directly at him. 

Alex took her offer of a ride back to the hotel. He politely refused her offer of a blow job to help him sleep, but at two in the morning his brain latched onto Orozco’s phrase _it already has_ , and he couldn’t deny he could have used someone’s help.

* * *

The glass fragment gave Alex new focus as he dug deeper into the rabbit holes of the dark web and found interesting rumors associated with Master Sergeant Manes, including a connection to a program named Project Shepherd. Worming his way into legitimate military servers, Alex cross-referenced the name and discovered that Project Shepherd had been defunded and shut down in 2010. It was associated with no base; it had no personnel; it was assigned no resources. 

_“The real details are classified until you report for duty,”_ his father had told him at Walter Reed. Report where? To whom? Jesse Manes was the only name attached to Shepherd, and other than its activation and decommission dates, Shepherd itself was a ghost. Alex hacked Jesse’s work schedule from Walker Air Force Base, and then he was done with computers. 

Alex drove to the southside Starbucks to use their wi-fi and burn some time. At 1350 he packed up and headed back to the base where he waited in the parking lot of a Circle K in direct line of sight from the entrance, eating McDonald’s. He listened to music, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the checkpoint. Jesse’s humvee passed through ten minutes past two. 

From there he followed as the humvee took narrow roads that meandered like animal paths far off the straight-lined grid of Roswell. Eventually Jesse turned north onto a road undocumented Google maps and slowed in front of a wide, unmarked entrance road that ended in a tall, chain link fence. Alex pulled over and idled behind the scant cover of a low mesquite tree, far enough back that he couldn’t see his father leave his vehicle, but he could see the chain link fence move where the gate must be. The back end of the humvee moved out of sight, there was a pause, and the gate moved back. 

Alex had a good idea what was behind the fence, and it wouldn’t take much to find the details he wanted online. Without cover to hide his SUV, Alex turned around for home, planning his strategy on the hour-long drive. 

At five o’clock Michael texted: Running late home by 7 gonna get takeout what do u want. Alex texted back: don’t care. He read the text again. _Home by 7._ They started calling the cabin home right around Christmas, when Alex’s things arrived from storage. Just before six o’clock tires on gravel rolled up to the cabin and put Alex in a pleasant state of anticipation. Michael was home early. He’d brought dinner. He would take one look at Alex reclined on the couch and know the day had scuffed him up.

But the engine idled, smoother than the truck, ruining Alex’s contentment. When the noise finally died, he was already on his crutches, looking out the window, knowing who he’d see. This time he was prepared. This time, he knew exactly what he would say. 

*

“My father showed up,” Alex told Michael before he closed the door behind him. 

“Here? When?”

“An hour ago.”

“Shit.” said Michael, grim. “I should have been here.” He paused and assessed the room, a habit of his Alex had noticed that was usually more subtle. Instead of setting the bags on the kitchen table, he set them on the coffee table next to Alex’s laptop. “Gimme a minute, then I want to hear about it. Dig in, it’s from Zen’s. I got the usual.” He hung his coat, kicked off his boots, and disappeared toward the bathroom. After a few minutes, he returned, settled on the couch next to Alex, and rooted through the bag. “You didn’t have to wait on me. So what was the asshole up to?” 

“It’s like he knew you weren’t here and just showed up.” Alex found his order and snapped apart the chopsticks. 

“Like he bugged the place?” 

“No,” said Alex. “There would’ve been signs of a break-in before now.” He had insisted Michael change the locks the day they moved in. Michael obliged after he installed the grab bar in the shower, saying he’d keep guard while Alex showered, a weak stab of humor on that shitty day, but he’d fixed all the doors and windows the next day before he tackled the ramp. “I don’t think he planted anything. But I did find out something today.” 

Alex explained about Project Shepherd, a defunct program closed down in 2010 and no longer backed by the military--and had been headed by Master Sergeant Manes. 

“That’s what he’s been going on about--some old weapons research project. And even better, he’s been using Manes family money.” 

“To do what?” 

Alex shook his head, mouth tight. Jesse was trying to control Alex, that much was clear, but for what? He didn’t like not knowing, and he didn’t like Jesse’s actions: nothing added up. But what he did know reassured him on one front. “Whatever he’s up to, it’s not official. I’m pretty sure he’s squatting at an old Air Force property west of town,” he said, and told Michael about following Jesse. 

Michael picked at his food. “So what did he say?” 

“The usual shit. Vague threats, mostly.” Jesse’s face had been the stony mask from Alex’s childhood that came before a verbal or physical attack. Alex didn’t fear him anymore, but he couldn’t stop the clench of preparedness for violence when Jesse had said, _You have no idea what I do, and you are not capable of finding out._

“What the hell is a vague threat?” 

“He thinks he has some kind of influence on my career.” 

“Does he?” 

“He shouldn’t, but he’s basically an institution at Walker,” admitted Alex. He told Michael about the temporary orders signed by a colonel he didn’t know that superseded his current station orders and would put him in Roswell when he returned to duty instead of Scott AFB. 

“Jesus, Alex.” 

“Nothing’s going to happen before I pass the medical examiners board and that’s not happening soon. He wants to control the narrative.” Alex poked at his noodles with the chopsticks. “He used to control everything, until I enlisted and got the hell out of the house.” 

Michael stared at him, and Alex could almost see the wheels cleverly turning. “You can’t just go to the Air Force police or whatever, can you,” he said. “It wouldn't make you look good.” 

“Yeah, whining about my father wouldn’t get me very far here in Roswell.” If he hadn’t chosen Michael from the Program, Alex would be alone and at his father’s mercy. But he did have Michael. The worst threat Jesse had tossed out casually before he finally left wasn’t vague at all and filled him with dread. _You’ve made a lot of progress, son. You hardly need the services of a Companion. I’d say it’s time for that boy to move on._

“Fuck that shit,” said Michael. “You got, what, three appointments this week. Drop me off at the Emporium and pick me up when you’re done.” He dug his chopsticks deep into his food, purposeful. “Then we can take a run at this asshole together.” 

_Together_. Alex wanted to put the food down. He wanted to straddle Michael right there on the couch, angle his face to Alex’s satisfaction and _take_ because he’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted Michael and he was tired of lying to himself. 

And he shouldn’t want. He shouldn’t take. The Program, the contract: none of it favored the Companion, and Alex had no interest in using his authority to get laid by someone who couldn't say no without repercussions. 

But he wanted. 

Alex ate, hungry but too distracted by Michael to notice the food.

After dinner, Michael checked the locks on the windows and doors, frowning as he made his rounds. He left, and Alex thought he’d retired for the night, but he returned half an hour later and installed a chain on the back door, an ugly old piece of hardware he’d found in the bunkhouse in a bucket of metal junk. 

“A chain doesn’t add much security,” Alex noted. 

“Yeah, but I like the idea of making your dad talk through the gap and--” Michael set the final screw “--a chain will slow down an asshole trying to pick a fight. Sometimes all you need is a few seconds.” He brushed away the sawdust and slid the chain in place. “So. How much do I need to know?”

“Excuse me, what?” 

“What do I need to know about your father and his intimidation game? I get that you don’t want to show me whatever deep, dark secrets he’s feeding you, but I’ve got to know what he’s capable of if I’m gonna be any help for you.” 

It was a fair question, if Alex wanted his help. “He’s not your problem.” 

“But he’s yours, so technically that makes him mine.” 

“Technically my physical well-being is your responsibility. That is literally what it says on the contract. My father has nothing to do with it.” 

“Alex,” he said, “the fact that your father exists impacts your well-being, so what he does is absolutely my business. Literally.” Michael picked at a hangnail. “And his knocking around sure as hell impacts mine. He creeps me the fuck out.” 

Alex inhaled, long and controlled, convinced he was making the wrong choice by opening up. “He says he’s got connections, whatever the hell that means, but he is talking to someone,” he said, “because he’s made at least two calls on a burner cell. Whatever he’s doing isn’t official, but that doesn’t mean he’s working alone.”

“Does he have a gun?” 

“He carries his service weapon,” Alex said, “but he doesn’t need a weapon to do damage.”

“Like combat training?” 

“Among other things.” 

Michael’s lip curled to show his teeth. “I fight dirty.” 

“So does he,” said Alex. “I have no idea what’s motivating him or what he’s trying to prove. He seems to know a lot, but he hasn’t followed through with any of his threats. Maybe he’s just spinning information after the fact to make it look like he has more power than he does, and then brings it here to fuck with me.” 

“But why?”

“Because he’s a homophobic abusive prick.” 

“That doesn’t make him special,” Michael said, chin up. 

Stung, Alex replied, “Because he’s a homophobic abusive prick with authority and delusions of heroism.” 

“I spent six months with a foster dad who was a cop. Still not special.” A thought occurred to him. “You got how many brothers? Two? Three?” 

“Three.”

“And they’re all military.” 

“Where are you going with this?” 

“Why is he hand-delivering information about possible extraterrestrial objects to you? Is he doing the same to your brothers? Is this some kind of fucked-up status quo for your family?” 

“I--” And that was one wall in his head Alex stayed away from. _No, he’s not doing the same to my brothers._ But Michael was talking about military secrets, not-- “I don’t know. I--not Greg. Probably Flint. Maybe Clay.” 

But he did know. Jesse told him from the start. “If he’s running a program without official resources, then he needs me.” Alex gave Michael a quick CV: cyber security, programming, IT systems, cryptanalysis. “I’m good at what I do.” 

“So what does he want you to do for him?” 

“He’s given me only glimpses of data about this secret project. I thought the symbols on that piece of glass were part of a code he wanted me to break, but if it is a code, I can’t crack it. Not with that small of a sample. The rest is.” Alex shook his head. “It’s sensationalist propaganda about an alien invasion of Earth based on the crash of a weather balloon in ‘47. It reads like a bad sci-fi movie. What you do at the Emporium with the Greens sounds more realistic.” He cleared his throat. “No offense.” 

“You know saying no offense automatically makes it offensive.” 

“Yeah, I know. I just don’t believe in UFOs,” he said. It was hard to ride the line between regret for ruining a passion so important to Michael and disdain for the hoax. “Aliens, crop circles, men in black, any of it.”

“But your dad does.” 

“And I have no clue how to process that.” 

“So forget the UFOs.” Michael was usually a kinetic thinker, some part of his body moving when processing, but he was still as Alex finished speaking, his brow heavy. “This isn’t about what your father knows. It’s about what your father is doing with what he knows. And whatever he does, it can’t be good, right? So really. How can I help?” 

Alex had accepted Michael’s help months ago, when he contracted a stranger as an ally. Now he had Michael as a friend. 

“Watch my back.” 

*

Michael spent less time at the Emporium and declared he would drive when they tailed Jesse together. Alex hated to cut into the time Michael spent working for the Greens. Michael said he hated to live under Jesse’s threat and that he had no fixed work hours. “It’s not like I have a job there, or even that they need me. They hired the people they needed for the reno months ago. They let me mess around the building because I gave them money. I’m a glorified gofer more than anything.” 

“Just like you’re my glorified helper-monkey?” But Alex dropped the questioning and suspected that, while Alex accepted Michael was more than a Companion, maybe Michael decided Alex was more than a job. 

Michael joined Alex’s surveillance of Jesse, but he didn’t drive every time. He drove Wednesday after Alex’s PT and stood lookout at the undocumented facility west of the city, idling his truck while Alex explored inside its chain link fence. Michael was a genius with a padlock. 

“What’d you find?” he asked when Alex climbed into the truck. 

“A lot more high-tech security than you’d expect at a base abandoned twenty years ago.” He’d looked it up: the base had been decommissioned in 1997.

“Grant texted. I have to swing by the Emporium,” Michael said as they drove back into Roswell. “You good with that? I could give you the tour.” 

“I used to work there.” 

Michael scoffed. “You’re fucking with me.” 

“I worked the box office and gift shop.” 

“I can’t believe you never told me.” 

“Bring me in. I’ll show you where I hid my weed.” 

“Oh, now you’re really fucking with me.” 

Michael took him in through the back, bypassing the offices and storerooms and leading him to the public areas. Roswell’s UFO Emporium hadn’t changed in decades, but it was changing now. The auditorium showed the most progress, with its grubby displays removed and old, cheap wall coverings torn off to reveal older, lovelier walls beneath. Scaffolding obscured the stage. 

“It smells the same,” said Alex.

“They’re gonna fix that.” 

The lobby was strewn with construction clutter, though it was nearly done its transformation, but Alex beelined for the ticket booth, which hadn’t been touched yet, including the swivel stool. He sank onto the lumpy naugahyde seat and into 2007. “Oh my god, it’s worse than I remembered.” 

“The whole booth is going to be torn out,” said Michael, “but they’re putting in a better one, with two windows.” He leaned against the partition, the two of them in that small space, grinning like teenagers getting away with a misdemeanor. “New stools, too. Real cushy.” 

“Michael! There you are.” Grant Green entered the lobby. Michael’s loose-limbed sprawl snapped to attention and he strode out to meet Grant in the middle of the lobby. Alex levered himself up from the stool while Grant handed Michael several keys on a glow-in-the-dark alien keychain and explained which of several antique console radios he wanted retrieved from the off-site storage. “I want you to deliver them here to work on. I won’t be able to help you the rest of this week or on Monday because my brother and I will be with our accountant so bring them by Saturday and I’ll...” Grant finally swung his attention to Alex and frowned. “I know you. You used to work here. One of the Manes boys. There was Flint and--” 

“Alex. Hi, Grant. Long time no see.” 

Grant gave him a careful once-over, staring at the crutch. “You’re the Patron, aren’t you. Huh.” He turned to Michael as if to ignore Alex, but his gaze darted back. “Alex used to work for my parents.” 

“That’s the rumor.” Michael pocketed the keys. “So, the radios. You need them any time in particular, or…?”

“We need them fixed and ready for next Friday. The electrician will be on site to certify your work. I’ll be here this Saturday so I can let you in anytime before six.” Grant continued to be distracted by Alex as he gave more details on the radios. Finally he said, “I’m leaving. Graham’s in his office. Tell him when you leave so he knows the building is empty.” 

“Sure thing.” 

Grant hesitated, then abruptly put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, patted it stiffly, and said, “He’s a lot nicer than his brother, so you’ve got that going for you. Considering what you have to. You know.” He marched out of the main entrance without another word. 

As soon as the door shut behind him, Alex, mortified, asked, “Does that happen often?” 

“Whatever,” Michael said. 

Alex clasped his arm. “No, he just implied--You shouldn't have to put up with that shit.” Kate Long’s taunting outside the movie theater was fueled by bigotry, but this was specifically about Companions. _And Green sure as fuck shouldn’t touch you._

“It’s just people being morons, and there’s no cure for that.” He shrugged Alex’s hand off with a graceful twist that ended with his own hand low on Alex’s back, guiding. “C’mon, I want you to see something.” He led Alex through the main exhibition hall to a room Alex hardly recognized.

“This was the skull room,” Alex said. All the incandescent lights had been replaced by LEDs, which were smaller and had a cooler twinkle. He remembered Michael bitching about replacing them on a spaghetti night. “There used to be a tiny map of New Mexico right there.” Alex pointed at the floor, which had been replaced. “And styrofoam flying saucers dangling from the ceiling.” 

“Most of them are coming back, but not in here. Look.” Michael guided Alex to a long, low glass case. Alex bowed close to see four shards arranged on a black velvet panel angled for viewing, as if they were jewels. Similar to the glass in the basement wall, the pieces gleamed, multi-colored like an oil slick, but they were much smaller. Alex wondered if the colors would move if he touched one. He looked at Michael, eyebrow cocked, and Michael cleared his throat. 

“They’re, uh,” said Michael. He wouldn’t meet Alex’s gaze. “They’re not exactly the same. The colors and the symbols are different.” 

“They’re not the same size, either.” 

“Grant thinks they’re debris from the UFO. Part of the hull.” Michael shoved his hands in his pockets.

Alex straightened. “So the piece in the wall wasn’t as much of a surprise to you as it was to me.” 

“Other than the fact you’d seen pictures of it before? No, I wasn’t surprised to see something like it,” Michael admitted. “But it sure as hell was a surprise to find it where we did.” 

“You ran off soon as I showed you the film.” 

“I, ah, thought the Greens would want to buy it, but I didn’t know how to ask you if you were willing to sell it. It’s all tied up with your dad’s creepy shit.” 

“Screw him and his creepy shit,” Alex said. “You could’ve asked. I’ll donate it right now, if it makes you happy.” 

“The Emporium is already full of that kind of stuff,” Michael demurred.

Alex tapped the glass case. “But you don’t think this is just stuff. Maybe everything else in here, but not these.”

“Alex,” he said, pained, “it doesn’t matter if I think they’re real. That’s not what makes them important to me.” 

“But it does matter what you think.” He recognized Michael’s desperation to remain connected to the family that left him behind, and he recognized the embarrassment. He had clung to odd things when his mother moved away. “Take the glass. Display it here, keep it for yourself, do whatever you want with it. Who knows who it belonged to? As far as I’m concerned, it’s as much yours as it is mine.” 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Michael retorted. “Says so right in the contract.” 

“This isn't about the contract.” Alex’s jaw worked. He didn’t care that Michael had seen glass like the fragment in the wall before, but he cared a lot about how people treated Michael, and how Michael treated himself under the label of Companion.

“Doesn’t matter. I sure as hell have no intention of taking anything that’s not mine. I’m not a charity case.” 

Alex shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, Michael, you are the furthest thing from a charity case out of anyone I’ve ever met.” 

“Just so you don’t get the wrong impression,” Michael said, mollified.

“Not about that,” he replied, low. 

“What impression did you get wrong, then?”

“None, I hope, but...I can give you things if I want to. You can have them.” Alex dropped his gaze from Michael’s widened eyes to where his mouth had fallen a little open. Living in that pinch-point of _want / shouldn’t have_ with Michael was wearing away his restraint. And what drove him to distraction was that he shouldn’t have Michael--but he _could_ have him. He saw the possibility right now in the shine of Michael’s lower lip.

Michael stepped right up, cupped Alex’s face in his warm hands, and kissed him. His mouth opened on Alex’s, confident, and Alex opened up to him, his chest filling, thrilled to be surprised.

Alex clenched a handful of Michael’s shirt front with his free hand and fumbled at his back with the other, crutch swinging where the cuff clung to his forearm until he shook it off and it clattered to the floor. He froze. “Shit.” 

“He listens to podcasts in his office,” Michael said, rushed between kisses. “He can’t hear us.” 

“Oh thank god, don’t stop,” said Alex even as he pulled away. He glanced out of the room to the hall, the current layout clicking with his memory, and he pulled Michael across to a door marked Private, gripping his shirt for support as he took the first few steps backward. The door opened onto the small storage room he remembered. In the shadows metal shelves lined with old cardboard boxes stored props and paper goods. An old wooden desk and hutch was filled with smaller boxes that held key chains, pencils, stress balls that looked like the moon: backstock for the bins at the gift shop register. 

“Yeah, okay,” Michael said. He maneuvered them both to the desk and Alex sat on the edge, feet still on the floor, his legs gently splayed. Michael nudged his knees wider to stand between them. “This works,” he said and kissed him again. “Yeah, that’s it. Christ, your arms are--”

_Fuck, he’s a talker_. The little compliments and running commentary, as if Michael was unboxing a Christmas toy he’d waited for all year, distracted Alex and made him competitive. He knocked Michael’s hands out of the way and clasped his face, drew him down as he pushed up and licked into his mouth to shut him up. He angled close and deep then drew apart until only their breath touched each other, then pulled him in again.

“Jesus.” Michael bowed his forehead to Alex’s, panting. His hips rolled against Alex’s thigh and Alex put their mouths together again. He clutched Michael’s shoulder, down his arm, around his back to shove his hand down the back of his jeans and haul him in tighter.

Michael muttered against Alex’s lips, “I’m gonna, hold on, I’m.” He jerked the top button of Alex’s jeans open, zipper gaping, and reached into his pants to palm the wet patch over his dick. “Ohhh, yeah. That all for me?”

“Uh-huh.” Alex tightened his fingers in Michael’s hair and drew him back so their gazes locked. The heel of Michael’s hand pressed just under the head of Alex’s cock, a rhythmic nudge. Alex tugged on Michael’s hair the same time he pushed on his shoulder, guiding, and Michael exhaled, his tongue wetting his lips before he lowered himself to one knee, the one hand _still_ on Alex’s cock, the other braced on Alex’s thigh.

Michael peeled down the briefs enough to get his hand on Alex’s bare cock. He pulled his hot hand up its length and down, wet. “God damn,” he said.

Alex rolled into the pleasure of Michael’s hand, sweat prickling the small of his back, his thighs burning with the effort of keeping him on the desk, hips moving. He dug into Michael’s shoulder to move him closer. The light from the cracked door touched Michael’s temple, cheekbone, the side of his nose, his hooded eyes cast down watching Alex fuck his hand. His head slowly bowed until his hot breath clouded Alex’s cock and he licked, broad and firm, across the head.

A twist of Michael’s hair brought his face up, surprised, and Alex kissed his mouth again, tasting himself on Michael’s tongue. Michael groped his free hand from Alex’s thigh to his stomach, sliding under his shirt and higher on his chest until the tips of his fingers dug into his collarbone and his broad palm radiated heat over Alex’s drumming heart.

“More,” Alex panted. Michael’s hand tightened on his cock, increasing the tempo, slipping easily as the smell of sweat and sex rose between them. Michael came up off his knee, closer, which took the room his hand needed for speed, but he rocked his hand harder and tighter with deep, long strokes that revved Alex’s pleasure like a flywheel, fast, faster--

Alex threw his head back, mouth open and soundless, body thudding with pleasure.

“Oh, oh,” Michael gasped as Alex came over his hand in shuddering pulses. “Oh _hell_ yeah.” 

Euphoric laughter bubbled quietly out of Alex, panting, his nerves jumping in the aftermath of orgasm. God, that had been a long time coming.

Michael beamed at him, his hand slowing, drawing out every last second of bliss. He ran his other hand higher, through the neck of Alex’s henley, to curve around his neck, thumb stroking his throat. “You’re so damned pretty.” He kissed Alex, but Alex couldn’t kiss back, still caught in his own soft laughter. Michael’s voice was soft, too. “You liked that.” 

Michael got both feet under him and looked around, his dirty hand cupped. Alex pointed him to a stack of refill packs for the paper towel holders and then tugged him in by his belt while he wiped off his hand and tossed the crumpled paper on the floor. Alex worked his belt buckle open, admiring the long, thick curve of Michael’s cock straining against his fly. He wanted it to spill heat into his hands, wanted to suck it deep. 

“Straighten up so I can get my mouth on you better,” Alex said.

“I don’t have a condom,” said Michael. He ran his fingers through Alex’s hair, pushing it away from his face. 

Alex blinked at him. “You were going to blow me without one.” 

“I’ve seen your STD test results.” His breath hitched as Alex cupped him through his pants. 

“And I’ve seen yours.” Alex unbuttoned Michael’s jeans. He worked the zipper down slow with one hand, tracing the trail of hair from navel to underwear with the other. “Have you…anyone? Do you need a condom?” 

“No, nobody.” Alex thumbed the damp spot of Michael’s briefs. Michael sucked in a deep breath and swallowed. “I’m clean, ah, fuck.” 

A door closing echoed faint but unmistakable in the hall. Michael swayed close, inattentive to anything except Alex’s hands. “Wait, what?” he said as Alex tucked him neatly back under the elastic of his briefs and zipped him back up. 

“Someone’s out there.” Alex started working on his own jeans, slipping the button back into its hole as the light swung crazy and bright in the gap under the door.

“Fuck,” swore Michael, heartfelt. 

The door opened. Michael put his back to Alex, covering him from whoever had opened the door. Light flooded the small room. 

“Michael!” It was Graham Green with a high-intensity flashlight. “What are you--oh. Oh.” 

“Could you aim that not directly in my face?” said Michael. Alex tugged his shirt down. 

The light dropped. “And I assume this is your…?” 

“I was, ah, giving my Patron a tour.” 

“Is that what you were giving him?” Graham said slyly. “Maybe you’d like to take the tour elsewhere.” 

Alex got to his feet, his right leg swollen in the socket from hanging off the side of the desk. 

“I’ll assume you’ll need this.” Graham held out Alex’s crutch. “It was on the floor in the east gallery.” 

Alex steadied himself with a hand on Michael’s shoulder and took his crutch. 

“Let’s say the tour is over, shall we?” 

“Yeah, we’re leaving,” said Michael. His hand fell into the small of Alex’s back and stayed there until they got to the truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you Monday. 😉


	10. Chapter 10

Michael had once or twice wished that they lived closer to town, but never so fervently. Especially with his erection still pressing painfully against the heavy fabric of his jeans.

He glanced at Alex out of the corner of his eye and caught Alex doing the same. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, and Alex started laughing again, the same free, happy laughter that had filled the storage room.

“I can’t believe Graham caught us,” Michael said.

“It wasn’t my idea to start making out in the Emporium,” Alex pointed out.

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“No.” Alex took Michael’s hand, resting on the seat between them. His fingers rubbed over a sticky place on Michael’s palm, where he’d missed a spot with the paper towel. It immediately reignited the heat inside him, but it was also nice to have Alex touch him, casually and affectionately. “Definitely no complaints. But that reminds me,” Alex said. “Do we need to stop at a drugstore?”

“We passed the last one like ten miles ago. And you said we didn’t need them.”

“I did.” Alex said. “But we were in the middle of things, maybe not thinking clearly. I don’t want you to feel like I made the decision for both of us.”

It was almost funny. Michael was completely clean, as far as he knew. He’d never caught any kind of human illness, not even colds or stomach bugs. But he also didn’t dare get a blood test to prove it. He’d faked the results of the STD test the screening company had required, and though his Patron was entitled to have him tested regularly, Alex obviously had never done so.

“Maybe we should,” Michael said.

“Like you said, you’ve seen my medical history, and you haven’t slept with anyone since you were tested. I trust you.”

“Just like that?”

Alex turned those dark eyes on him and pinned him in place. “Michael, you’ve been my Companion for four months. You’ve kept track of my meds and my appointments, cleaned my house, fed me, and literally carried me from room to room. I trust you.” 

Michael had to let that sit and settle for a few minutes. It felt good. How could it not? But it also felt like pressure, expectations weighing him down. Worrying that he’d mess up whatever he and Alex had. Add that to Jesse’s bullshit and Michael’s possible family, and it could all go wrong in so many ways.

But this thing with Alex--it was more than pills and doctors. It was sitting on the couch and eating takeout with the TV on in the background. Singing along to the radio halfway between Roswell and Albuquerque. The way Alex dug his teeth into his lower lip when he pretended he wasn’t looking at Michael. The crease between his eyebrows. His long-fingered, strong hands.

Whatever they had, Michael didn’t want to be the one to screw it up.

*

When they arrived at the cabin, Alex waited for Michael instead of climbing down from the truck himself. Michael admired his patience until he reached Alex, and then Alex gave the game away, sliding down against Michael until his feet were on the ground. Michael considered just pressing him against the truck and kissing the hell out of him, but they were finally close to the bed, and Michael was down one orgasm. Not that he was keeping score, but he definitely wanted a number higher than zero.

He settled for a quick, heated kiss, his tongue skimming along Alex’s parted lips. “Come on,” he said. “Use your damn crutch. I don’t want you falling between here and the bed.”

Alex’s mouth curled in a smug smile as he got his arm settled in the crutch. “You in some kind of hurry?” He yelped when Michael slapped him on the ass.

“Damn right, I am.” He followed Alex into the cabin, eyes fixed on that ass. All the times he’d helped Alex with physical therapy and tried not to notice his muscles flexing right in front of him, moving smoothly under his skin. He’d had to retreat to the bunkhouse a few times to quickly jerk off, rather than try to cook dinner with an obvious hard-on.

Alex stopped at the bedroom door and looked back over his shoulder at Michael. Lust shot through him. He wanted to charge at Alex and tackle him to the floor, rub off on his bare stomach. “You need to get on that bed.”

Alex’s chuckle floated back through the doorway. Michael reached him as he lay down on the bed, and he let himself play out a little of his fantasy, pushing Alex flat and draping himself over him. He tucked one hand under Alex’s head and pushed up his shirt until he could spread his other hand across Alex’s chest, stroke down his side and back up again to circle his palm over a nipple.

Alex got a grip on Michael’s hair and pulled him up into a kiss. He lost himself in it--Alex’s taste in his mouth, skin under his hand, gasps filling his ears. Alex bit teasingly at his lower lip, and he flicked Alex’s nipple in retaliation, but didn’t get the response he’d hoped for.

“Doesn’t do much for you?” he murmured into Alex’s lips.

“Not really. My neck, though…”

Michael was just fine with that, immediately kissing down the side of Alex’s neck, lips scraping against stubble, until he hit a spot that made Alex squirm under him.

“Oh, yeah,” Alex whispered, “right there.”

He scratched up and down Michael’s back through the fabric of his shirt until Michael had to pull away, sit up and peel it off. Alex took the chance to fumble with his henley, getting it shoved up under his armpits before Michael lay down on him again. Michael wanted the shirt completely off, but with it pushed up, he could run his hands from Alex’s chest down to the flexing muscles of his abs.

Michael needed to touch him in all the ways he hadn’t been allowed to. Months of trying to keep touches impersonal and professional, determined not to take advantage of Alex’s injury, no matter how often he’d imagined going to his knees or cradling Alex in his arms. He kissed his sternum, used his tongue to trace the line of hair that led to his waistband.

“Get back here.” Alex urged him up, again with a hand in his hair, and that was almost as good, pressing against him skin to skin, slow kisses that made his head spin. It was too much, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

He returned to Alex’s neck, sucking on the spot that made him cry out and roll his hips against Michael’s. Michael grabbed at Alex’s left thigh, hitching it up onto his hip to bring them closer, grinding down against Alex’s hard cock.

“Michael,” Alex said, a whine running through the sound.

“What do you want?” Michael gasped, wild with the feel of Alex under him. “I’ll do anything.”

“I want to make you come.” He licked into Michael’s mouth, his hot wet tongue stroking along Michael’s and his hands cradling Michael’s face. When he broke the kiss, they panted together, humid breaths mixing.

With a teasing brush of his nose against Alex’s, Michael said, “I figured that part was included.”

“Okay, then hurry up and fuck me.”

Michael reared his head back so he could meet Alex’s gaze. “You sure?”

“Would you ask me that if I had both legs?” Alex shot back.

“Probably,” Michael said, after he took a charged second to think about it. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Alex’s expression softened, and instead of answering, he kissed Michael, close-mouthed and gentle. With a quick shove, he pushed Michael away and pulled off his shirt. Michael settled on the side of the bed to quickly get his boots off, then laid his hand on Alex’s waist.

“Can I take your jeans off?”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “Do it.”

Off came Alex’s shoes. Michael tossed them to the floor next to the bed, then reconsidered and had to scramble off the bed to grab them and set them next to the nightstand, out of the path between the bedroom and bathroom. When he got back on the bed, Alex had shoved his pants and underwear halfway down his thighs.

He was torn between taking Alex’s clothes all the way off or getting Alex’s cock in his mouth, but figuring that one would eventually lead to the other, he settled by Alex’s feet and worked the jeans down off his legs.

“What about this?” he asked, putting his hand on Alex’s right knee.

Alex looked down at him, his gaze steady. “You know how to take it off.”

*

“If you don’t stop that...”

Michael let Alex’s cock slip from his mouth, the weight of it lewdly dragging past his lips. “Yeah?” Not waiting for an answer, he licked up the shaft and sucked on the head.

“Shit, Michael...” Alex’s hand tightened in Michael’s hair as his body twisted under Michael’s weight. “I--you said--”

“I said what? Oh, that I would fuck you?” He gathered up some of the wetness on Alex’s cock and rubbed right under the head with his thumb, just to hear Alex make that pained noise, half laugh and half groan. “Is that what you want?”

“I take it back, I don’t want to have sex with you anymore. You’re terrible.”

Michael looked up to find Alex’s arm thrown across his eyes. “I guess if you insist,” he said, letting his thumb draw lazy circles. “You’ve got the lube.”

The tube thudded into his outstretched hand with a little more force than was necessary, but Alex’s teasing smile more than made up for it. So did the moan he let out when Michael slid two fingers into him, slowly but steadily.

“That better?” Michael asked.

“Fuck, yes,” Alex breathed, though Michael couldn’t tell if he was answering the question or just appreciating the stretch of his body. He squeezed more lube onto his fingers and moved them a little harder, transitioning from opening Alex up to fucking him. Alex let his right leg fall farther open to give Michael better access.

“Hey, hold on a second,” Michael said. “Pass me that pillow.”

It took some contortion to get the pillow under Alex’s hips without taking his fingers out, but they finally got it settled, giving Michael enough room to lean in and lick at the thin skin stretched around his fingers.

“Oh _fuck_ , Michael,” Alex moaned, each syllable drawn out and coated in bliss. It made Michael want to stay where he was forever, doing whatever it took to pull those sounds out of Alex.

A third finger went in easy, Alex’s body hot and yielding. Michael let his fingers still and pressed a kiss to the delicate skin of Alex’s inner thigh. “You ready?”

He expected another smart retort from Alex, but Alex fumbled for Michael’s free hand and gently tugged on it. “Come on.”

“Do you want to turn over? It might be easier.”

Alex shook his head, the gentle tug turning forceful. “Come _on_.”

Of course. Alex never took the easy way. But he knew why Alex wanted to be face-to-face, and he wanted it too.

Michael pushed into him slowly, watching his face for any sign of discomfort, whether from the stretch or from the position of his legs. Finally, after endless moments, he was inside Alex, nothing separating them. He wanted to move. He wanted to kiss Alex. He wanted to lay his ear against Alex’s chest and listen to his strong, loyal heart. He wanted to drive Alex mad, give him a minute of pleasure for every second of pain he’d had to endure.

Alex tilted his hips up and dug his left heel into the back of Michael’s thigh. Michael pushed in just that little bit further, withdrew, and then thrust back into him, hard. Alex moaned, the sounds coming out of him synchronized with every stroke of Michael’s cock. He’d heard Alex’s warm voice when he sang, but this was sweeter music.

Alex was so hot around him, and his whimpers and little begging cries were as much a part of it as the sensations. Pleasure spread through Michael, throbbing thickly in his fingers and toes.

“Keep talking,” Alex gasped.

“What?” Michael slowed and blinked down at Alex, confused.

“You’ve got a mouth on you. Use it.”

“Oh, I see,” he said knowingly. He sped up again and hiked Alex’s left leg over his arm. “You want me to tell you how good you look with my cock in you.”

Alex arched his back and fumbled for Michael’s hips, trying to pull him even closer. “Yeah, I want it.”

“How much I wanna see your gorgeous lips sucking me down.”

“Yes, please, yes.” When Michael ran a thumb over his plush bottom lip, Alex’s tongue slipped out to meet it, tasting Michael’s skin, opening unhesitatingly when Michael pushed his thumb inside.

“How much I wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He took his thumb from Alex’s mouth and used it to spread the precome leaking from Alex’s cock. Everything about Alex made him want to touch, feel the softness of his lips, the rasp of hair on his legs, the firm resilience of muscle.

Alex had both hands twisted in the sheets and his head tipped back, eyes scrunched closed. All Michael saw was the line of his throat leading up to his jawline. He moved his hand faster on Alex’s cock until it felt fever-hot, and Alex opened his eyes and stared at Michael.

“Do it,” Michael managed to say. “All over yourself. Let me see it.”

Alex kept his eyes open the whole time, gaze locked on Michael’s, even as he came over his stomach and Michael’s hand. Michael stroked him through it until he couldn’t bear waiting any more, until he had to let his body take over and thrust into Alex, into that welcoming warmth, and collapse in his arms.

*

He offered half-jokingly to carry Alex to the bathroom but relented once Alex threatened him with a crutch. He made sure the bedroom floor was clear, and as Alex cleaned up, Michael put his underwear on. Then he had a fierce, spiraling internal battle about whether he should put his t-shirt on, because he didn’t usually sleep with a shirt on but he also didn’t usually sleep with other people and maybe Alex would prefer he wear a shirt, or he could just ask Alex--

“Bathroom’s all yours,” Alex said, clopping back into the room.

Michael froze, shirt in his hands. To cover up his reaction, he balled up his shirt and set it with his other clothes on top of the dresser, then stood to the side while Alex sat down, stashed his crutches, and climbed back into bed. When he returned from the bathroom, Alex was scrolling through his phone.

“Hey, plug this in?” He tossed the phone onto the empty side of the bed.

Michael clicked the connector into the bottom of the phone and set it on the nightstand. When he climbed into bed, the sheets were still warm from their body heat, and he slid into that comfort. Alex laid out his arm, an invitation that Michael accepted, pillowing his head on Alex’s shoulder.

“That was weird, being back in the Emporium after ten years. How is the renovation going?” Alex asked.

“I heard one of the owners caught a couple of employees making out in a closet.” Michael mentioned offhandedly, as if he wouldn’t be enjoying the memory for years to come.

“Sounds pretty hot,” Alex said wryly. “But aside from that.”

“They’re targeting June for the reopening, to catch the end of tourist season. Would have liked it done sooner, but there were delays with permits and inspections. The date still might slip.”

Alex hummed absently in acknowledgment, but Michael was reminded of his earlier discovery at the Emporium.

“Did you know Max and Isobel Evans?”

“From high school? How do _you_ know them?” Alex asked.

Shit, he hadn’t figured out how to explain this without mentioning the alien symbol. “It’s a weird story. Just--what do you know about them?”

Alex shrugged, his fingers tangling in Michael’s hair and gently teasing at his scalp. “Not a lot. I saw Max more because he was into Liz, so sometimes he’d hang out with her and me and Maria. Not as much senior year, when Liz was dating Kyle.”

“Kyle? Animorphs Guy?”

Alex’s chuckle rumbled through him. “Yeah, him. He was kind of a dick in high school.” After a breath, Alex added, “Actually, he was a homophobic ass in high school. I guess he’s trying to be better now.”

“And Isobel?” Tall and blonde. That was all Michael knew.

“She floated above it all. Usually had a pack of girls following her. Liked everyone to know her family had money, but she definitely caused some trouble. I think she’s an event planner now. Why are you asking about them?”

“I told you about my family.”

Alex’s arm tightened around him, a comforting half-hug. “That they died.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “What actually happened--wait, let me get my pants.”

“You need your pants to tell this story?” Alex asked, cocking his head to look down at Michael.

Michael made sure to plant an elbow on him as he turned over and scrambled off the bed. He pulled his wallet from his jeans, set in a pile with his other clothes on the dresser by the door. Alex held up the covers for Michael to climb back in.

“Here.” He gave Alex the folded newspaper article he’d taken from the Emporium. 

Alex propped himself up on the pillows next to Michael and frowned over the article as he read it. “This is you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“But if they died--I don’t understand.” Alex transferred his frown to Michael.

Michael _really_ hadn’t thought this through. “They did. At least, my parents did. But when I was six or seven...it’s kind of fuzzy, but I remember being found. I remember being with the other two kids. And...I remember being taken away.” He could sense them when they were close, even after strangers separated them. But after that, he knew, he’d been moved to Albuquerque, and that was the last time he’d ever felt them in his mind.

“Are you telling me that you’re related to Max and Isobel Evans?” Alex asked incredulously.

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think so? I just know that me and those other two kids--we’re connected somehow.” Not the same blood, he didn’t think. But the same in other important ways.

Alex shook his head, not following. “But how do you know that Max and Isobel are these other kids?”

“I don’t know for sure. Rosa was talking about the Evans twins at the Emporium last month, and she mentioned they were adopted. They’re the right age, right hair color. It’s not a lot to go on,” Michael admitted.

The hopeful face Alex turned on him made his heart lurch. He didn’t like hope. Hope had never done him any favors, only lured him in and then kicked him in the gut. “But if it’s actually them--Michael, that’s huge.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. So huge that he almost couldn’t comprehend it.

“Have you contacted them?”

He’d shoved it to the back of his mind since that day at the Emporium, not ready or able to chase the possibility. There were too many questions. What if it wasn’t them? What if they weren’t like him? Did they have the same powers he did? Did they have powers at all?

What if they didn’t want to know him? What if they took one look at him and walked away?

He’d spent so long thinking he was alone. But alone was better than unwanted.

“No,” he said on an exhaled breath, expelling tension along with air. “I’m not ready. I need to--find out more about them, I guess.”

Alex smiled at him, somehow both happy and sad, and took Michael’s hand in his, long fingers curling around it comfortingly. “Of course. But I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me about them.”

Michael slid down and rested his head on Alex’s shoulder. He couldn’t take Alex looking at him like that and talking about trust. Not when he still had a secret that dwarfed everything he’d ever admitted to Alex. With Alex on the trail of the alien shards, he had to be even more careful, especially if Max and Isobel were aliens too.

It was too early to fall asleep, but he was dropping off anyway, body sagging into Alex and the bed. He shifted to place his head more firmly on a pillow and pull the duvet over them both.

“Hey, get up.”

Michael jerked awake with a sickening hit of adrenaline. “I can go back to the bunkhouse.”

Alex grabbed his arm as he began to swing his legs to the floor. “Michael, I’m not kicking you out. I just realized I can’t sleep against the wall, in case I need to get up in the middle of the night.”

He searched Alex’s face for any sign that he was taking pity on him, the poor orphan so tired of being alone that he’d conjured two siblings out of midair. But Alex only held onto him and waited until the adrenaline ebbed, looking expectantly at him.

“Okay,” Michael said, glad that Alex was willing to let him sweep aside that moment of vulnerability. He got up and let Alex settle himself, then climbed over him to lie down with his back against the wall. Alex rolled to face him and reached out, his thumb tracing a tender path along Michael’s cheekbone.

“Go to sleep,” Alex whispered.

It took a few minutes, enough time for Alex to fall asleep, for Michael to realize that any attempt to get out of bed would disturb Alex, and he was essentially trapped.

And a few more minutes to decide he was okay with that.

*

Michael woke to kisses pressed to his chest, his neck, his cheek, the scratch of Alex’s stubble gently abrading his skin.

“You’re awake,” Alex murmured against his bicep.

“Kind of hard to sleep through that.”

With no sign of remorse, Alex said, “I woke up ten or fifteen minutes ago, and I was trying not to bother you.”

“This was you trying not to bother me?”

“I got tired of waiting.” Alex mouthed at his neck again, and then began kissing his way down Michael’s chest, shoving the covers out of the way until they were bunched up at Michael’s knees. “I never got to do this yesterday, and you looked too good.”

Michael’s cock, already half-hard, filled quickly when Alex pulled his underwear out of the way and swallowed him down. Oh, Alex was good at this, and his obvious pleasure in the act turned Michael on as much as the slick warmth surrounding him.

For a moment, Alex waited while Michael grew in his mouth, moving his tongue just a little to tease. Michael rocked his hips gently, trying to urge him into faster movement, but Alex pressed him down with a wicked look that reminded Michael of how much he had worked on strengthening his upper body. Michael let a whine slip out, encouraging Alex to take pity on him.

Alex smirked like he saw through the performance Michael was putting on, but he drew up until his lips only loosely encircled the head of Michael’s cock. He teased him with his tongue, gentle licks and slow, broad drags.

The pleasure was constant but not enough to push him up the slope towards orgasm. He could only try to breathe through it and remind himself not to grab Alex’s head. He gasped out, “If you were gonna kill me you could have let me sleep.”

Alex pulled off completely. “More complaints? I’m starting to think you’re not into this.”

“I’m starting to think you’re just playing around.”

Alex made him pay for that, sucking him deep and hard but not enough, pressing under his balls, gently rubbing over his asshole until Michael couldn’t decide whether to spread his legs or tilt up his hips or just lie there and let Alex take him apart.

He was floating when Alex finally let up on his hips and gave him the illusion of control, but it was still Alex who sucked harder, whose agile tongue made him cry out, who took everything Michael gave him and still wanted more.

*

“So you wanted me the first time you saw me.”

Michael refused to move his head from Alex’s hip, where he’d made himself comfortable after reciprocating. “Like that’s a surprise.”

“I wasn’t exactly at my best.” The smile colored Alex’s voice. Even though Michael couldn’t see it, he could envision it, one side of Alex’s mouth curling up, mischief lighting his eyes.

“Didn’t matter.” Especially not once he’d seen Alex stand up to his asshole father. 

“Then what took you so long?” Alex asked.

“What took _you_ so long?” Michael punctuated his point by poking Alex in the stomach. Touching him felt good, so he set his hand on Alex, his thumb slowly stroking the skin under his navel.

“I almost kissed you, that night you played my guitar,” Alex said. “You waved me off.”

“I offered to blow you ages ago,” Michael reminded him, as if either of them would have forgotten it.

Alex sobered abruptly. “You’re my Companion.”

“So?”

“That’s why I couldn’t--that time.”

“Why not? I signed the Intimacy Clause.”

“That’s not the point.” Alex tugged on his hair until he groaned and levered himself up the bed, settling face-to-face with Alex. “You’re supposed to have a choice.”

Michael scoffed. “That is not how it works. But really, you think I didn’t choose to do this?”

“No, that’s not what I think. But you’re...vulnerable, because of the contract.”

Michael rolled his eyes, but that concerned, serious look stayed on Alex’s face. “Alex. I knew what I was volunteering for. I wouldn’t have signed up if the sex was a deal-breaker. You weren’t interested, that was fine.”

“I don’t want people to think I’m using you,” Alex said. “Even if I’m technically entitled to.”

“I don’t care what people think.” He had to make Alex understand. “I don’t do things for you because I have to. I do them because I want to.”

The tension melted away when Alex leaned in to kiss him, and part of Michael wanted to stay in bed all day, spend it sleeping and fucking and eating and bickering and fucking again. But he knew Alex had plans.

“What’s on the schedule with your dad? Are we at the part yet where I can curse him out and punch him?”

“Not exactly,” Alex said. “More like following him and hacking some outdated technology.”

Michael climbed over Alex and grabbed his crutches. “Hacking is boring. You promised me punching.”

“Did I? I don’t think I ever said that.” Alex took the outstretched crutches and stood, making his way to the bathroom as Michael flopped back down on the bed.

“I still reserve the right to punch him,” Michael called after him.


	11. Chapter 11

Alex didn’t manage to complete any basic detective work, but he did deliver on his promise of computer hacking. Michael complained it was boring, but Alex was easily lured from it by Michael, shirtless. Michael, downing one of his Lone Star long-necks. Michael, a smile beamed across the pillow in the morning light, keeping them in bed. That handjob in a closet had opened the floodgates, and they had sex as often as possible throughout the weekend. Alex did manage to dig up a useful fact or two, naked in bed, a coffee table book about classic Harley Davidson motorcycles on his lap as a desk for his laptop while Michael lay dozing next to him. 

On Saturday, three days in and frankly getting sore, Alex asked, “Don’t you have to deliver some radios for the Emporium?” 

“Nah. Pick ‘em up next week. Green thinks it’ll take a week to fix ‘em. Take me an afternoon at most. I wanna stay in bed,” Michael said into the pillow, to which Alex rebutted, “I need to get out of bed and do something other than fuck.” 

They managed laundry, a grocery run, and a trip to Target for lube and another set of sheets. 

Monday showed up with the usual slate of PT; Tuesday was a follow-up visit to his prosthetist in Albuquerque, and that night Alex hacked Jesse’s schedule, which included an off-base meeting with no details. He asked Michael, “I got to be ready to tail him before ten in the morning. You want to ride along?” 

“I’ll drive.” 

“Then you can stay home.” 

“I gotta get the radios. I’ll need the truck.” 

“You should have done that Saturday, like Green told you,” Alex complained. He resented being forced to factor in chores for the Emporium, but he wanted Michael with him in the morning. He thought back. “Grant said three radios, right? They’ll fit in the Jeep.” 

Michael grumbled that they weren’t _radios_ , they were _radio consoles_ , but on Wednesday morning Alex drove as they tailed Jesse from Walker AFB, north through the city to Wal-Mart. 

From the Jeep, he and Michael watched Jesse enter the store and exit fifteen minutes later. He held a phone in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. The cell phone was small, a flip-phone, not the oversized Samsung Alex knew he had. He stuffed the bag into the trash before walking along the front of the store and past the garden center to his car. It was parked in the side lot next to a dumpster. He brought the phone to his ear as he got into his car, his mouth moving.

Too far away, Alex could see nothing useful through the windows, but after a few minutes--Alex glanced at the clock in the dash: six minutes--Jesse rolled down his window before he abruptly snapped the phone in two and tossed it into the dumpster before driving off. 

“I’ve seen him do that before,” Alex said. “I want to know who he’s talking to on those phones.” 

“I’m going dumpster diving, aren’t I,” Michael deadpanned. 

“Yes you are, and if you bring me both pieces, the beer’s on me.” Alex grinned, delighted because he had a partner in this stupid war. They waited until Jesse’s sedan cleared the parking lot and then Alex pulled up close. Michael slid out of the Jeep and peered into the dumpster. 

He reached into the back seat for Alex’s crutch, ignoring Alex’s _Hey!_ and leaned over the side of the dumpster. After a few motions with the crutch, he reached in, then slipped back into his seat. He held up the broken phone and grinned. “When you said beer’s on you, you meant tequila, right?” 

“Fine, but I want the bag he threw in the trash by the door, too.” 

It was too easy. But maybe not; the phone might be a dead end. He wouldn’t know until he fixed it enough to rip apart again, which he would do later, when they got back to the cabin. “Does any of this--” Alex nodded at the bag holding the broken cell phone as he drove south through Roswell “--bother you?” 

“What, chasing your dad around?” 

“How my dad is trying to make it look like this data is about aliens and UFOs. And how he’s probably leading us on some kind of screwed-up snipe hunt.”

“Look, I get it. You don’t believe in aliens and UFOs.” 

“Military weapons research is stranger than sci-fi. I’ve seen some pretty weird shit.” 

“Oh, was that one of your jobs?” 

“No, I just knew a guy.” 

“Knew a guy! Was he, like, your boyfriend? Did you get him to spill state secrets?” 

Alex smiled, mouth closed. He had hooked up with Lt. Pennington. Or rather, Penny had hooked up with him during a TDY training at Ramstein. The course lasted an intense four months. Penny lasted two naked encounters off-base, forgettable except for the weird R&D shit and how he’d introduced Alex to Naveed Grindle. “Nothing I didn’t already have clearance to see. He was into failed projects, though. Crazy historical stuff. But,” he said, chasing the thought, “he did introduce me to someone actually useful.” 

“Another boyfriend?” 

“Do you think I slept my way through the ranks?” 

“All those hot soldiers, why the hell not?” 

“Airmen, and god no. Just the one, and he wasn’t a boyfriend. None of them were. No,” he said, “I’m talking about someone else. We met in Germany at a NATO training thing, and we’ve kept up with each other. He knows communications technology, especially cellular systems. If it’s a phone, he can make it do anything.” 

“So, not a boyfriend.” _Boyfriend._ Michael leaned on the word but continued on before Alex could call him on it. “But he’s a good guy? You think he’ll help you out?” 

“Yeah, I think he will.” 

*

The storage warehouse lay on the opposite side of Roswell, ten miles southwest of the city. Alex could have returned to the cabin to start work on the phone, but that would have forced Michael to ride the forty minutes back to the cabin with Alex, turn around and take his truck, alone, over an hour to the building ten miles past the city limits. He was tempted, itching to tear the phone apart. A Companion was contracted to serve, and the average Patron wouldn’t hesitate to prioritize his own interests over his Companion’s. 

But Alex hadn’t wanted to treat Michael like a Companion from day one, although the sex they were now having made him keenly aware that they were fulfilling at least one significant feature of the Companion contract that he’d been determined to ignore. 

At the warehouse, Michael directed him to back up to a particular doorway. He did, then said, “I’ll catch up with you,” and dug his phone out of his pocket as Michael unlocked the door and disappeared into the building. Alex had noticed the cell tower they passed, still within sight, and figured he could get a start on the burner phone even if Michael’s errand delayed the process.

He laid the ruined phone on the passenger’s seat and took photos of each piece, of the guts once he pried the back off, and of the various model and serial numbers. Then, hoping he wasn’t infringing on a friendship, he sent a text to Naveed. 

His phone rang as soon as the text was read. Alex blew out a breath, shocked that Naveed had called now instead of texted later, and answered. “Hey. I didn’t expect you’d call back.” 

“No need to be shy,” Naveed replied. 

“It’s great to hear your voice, really. I just hope I’m not overstepping with my request,” Alex said. 

“You’re my favorite American asshole. I’m delighted to do you a favor.” 

“What are you doing awake?” Naveed didn’t answer phones on principle, and Alex thought he was still in a time zone half-way around the world. 

“Sleep is for the weak, and maybe I just wanted proof of life since Facebook posts are easy to forge and, other than the odd text about Marvel films, that’s all I’ve seen of you. So what is it that you want to send me? Much as I’d like to hear the sordid details about this tidy Companion of yours, since you’re asking me for one of _those_ favors, it’s best we keep this conversation under the radar. I can scrub a few minutes, but only a few. What have you got?” 

“I have photos of a burner phone--” 

“And you need particulars.” 

“Anything you can tell me.” 

“Send them along.” 

Alex sent the photos. Naveed promised to take a look and get back in a day or so. Alex said, “How did you know I have a Companion?” He certainly hadn’t posted about Michael on Facebook. 

“I’ll teach you someday when you explain how _you_ have a Companion. A _Companion_. I’m not sure if I’m more shocked or impressed. Both, actually.” 

“His name is Michael. My Companion. Call him Michael.” 

“Oh, it’s like that, then. Good. You can tell me about him next time.” The call ended. 

Alex entered the building, planning how to shove hulking antique radios into the back of his Jeep because if they didn’t fit, Michael wouldn’t let him forget about it. Dust and old wood smell permeated the air. More of the overhead fluorescent lights had burnt out than not, and the thin light illuminated little amid the heaps of junk. Alex was about to call out to find Michael, but he heard him banging around further in and followed the noise. 

“Want a hand?” 

Michael hesitated. “Sure.” He indicated a dresser-sized radio console in a line with two other consoles and a wooden cabinet that appeared to have some old-timey purpose Alex didn’t know. Michael rustled up a hand truck and a stained moving blanket, and they wiggled the specific radio out of line, strapped to the hand truck, and into the back of the Jeep. They returned for another console, loaded it, and Alex began working out ways to tetris a third hulking piece of furniture into the cargo space, but the third radio was a tabletop unit, made of beautiful wood, dusty and scratched up. Michael wrapped it in another old moving blanket. 

“Anything else?” asked Alex. 

“No.” Michael hefted the radio. 

“You ever poke around this stuff?” Alex glanced around as they passed the displays and racks crowded with junk, life-sized models of aliens and mannequins of men in black suits. It was like a thrift shop or a rummage sale--you never knew what you’d find. Surprisingly, he recognized little from when he worked at the Emporium. Some of this stuff was _old_. 

“No.” Michael was out the door, leaving Alex to catch up. They settled the last radio and Alex shut the back while Michael locked up the building. Michael was grim as he slid into the passenger’s seat. 

Alex settled behind the wheel. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“That’s not very convincing.” 

“Maybe I’m hungry.” 

“How can you be hungry? You ate all of the trail mix.” 

“That was my breakfast because we were on the road at oh-dark-thirty,” complained Michael, but the tension in his forehead eased. “There’s some left.” 

“You picked out all the cherries.” 

“ _You_ picked out all the chocolate, so are we gonna get going or what?” 

“Seriously, what’d I miss?” 

Michael turned his head away as he inhaled, exhaled, and his stiff shoulders lowered. “You do realize you’re sitting in a car with a boy in an empty parking lot, right?” He smiled, a bawdy one that should have been more ridiculous than it was. 

“And?” Alex challenged. 

“You don’t sit in a car with a boy in the middle of nowhere and do--” Michael drew a finger down his lips “--nothing.” 

Alex snorted. “You’re not sexy.” 

“I’m very sexy,” Michael said, his smile more sweet than calculated this time. 

“Not even a little.” Alex was smiling now, too, as he reached for the ignition. 

“Nope, no, hold on.” Michael clasped Alex’s hand. “If you’re gonna be like this, then I’ve got a point to make.” He leaned close. “You don’t--” he kissed Alex’s cheek “--sit in a car--” he kissed Alex’s temple “--with a boy--” he kissed Alex’s top lip “--in the middle of nowhere--” he kissed Alex on the mouth “--and do nothing.” He drew back enough for Alex to see his pretty brown eyes, and Alex guided him close again with a hand on his neck to kiss his mouth open, slide his tongue in, taste him fully. 

“Okay,” Alex whispered against his lips, “you’re a little sexy.” 

“Oh, you’re gonna eat those words.” Michael hitched closer and yanked at the button of Alex’s jeans, but Alex pushed at his hands, laughing and protesting, “Not here!” 

“Circle round back. Nobody comes here anyhow, but you circle round back and no one can see us from the road. It’s the middle of nowhere.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“I’m sexy. Drive. Right around the corner, there.” 

“There’s a bed at home.” Alex started the engine.

“Nope. Gotta drop off the radios first and I,” said Michael, sliding his hand between Alex’s legs, massaging, “don’t want to wait that long.” 

Alex drove around the corner to a cracked patch of concrete behind the building, out of sight of the road, threw the gear in park, and jerked Michael into a kiss by his shirt. Their tongues met, and Alex drove Michael’s back into his mouth, his grip scrambling from Michael’s shirt to his jaw to control the angle and kiss deeper, inciting a surprised _hnn!_ from Michael. 

Alex broke the kiss, smug. “Can’t wait, can you.” He shoved Michael’s shirt up and yanked at his ridiculous belt buckle until he could flop it out of the way and open the fly of his jeans. He freed Michael’s cock, firm and lifting, bowed over his lap and sucked him down.

“Whoa!” Michael gasped. His hands rested on Alex’s head, patting his hair helplessly. “Damn, ohhh, you don’t have--oh _god_ ,” he said, rough and a little lost as Alex worked the back of his tongue hard against his cock. Alex mixed it up as the sun beat down on the roof of the car and the temperature rose thick in the cabin: he sucked, took Michael deep, worked his tongue again, and then twisted his hand tightly around the shaft as he came up to lip at the crown and gloss his lips. 

“Uhh, that’s so fucking good, it’s, uhh, wait, wait, slow down--” 

“Uh-uh,” Alex grunted, refusing, and worked him harder until Michael gave it up and Alex swallowed everything he could. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Michael panted, stroking Alex’s shoulder with a shaking hand. 

Alex licked his lips as he rummaged through the glove box for a napkin to wipe his chin. “You said you couldn’t wait.” 

“What, and you can?” Michael tucked himself back into his underwear but didn’t fasten his jeans.

“I can, but I don’t have to, do I.” 

“Nope. Lean back.” Michael reached between Alex’s legs but kept going, and the seat ratcheted back. 

Alex unzipped his jeans and worked them down his hips. Michael rubbed his face on Alex’s underwear, opened his mouth over the wetness soaking the cloth, and slid his fingers under the waistband, pulling them down, freeing Alex’s cock. 

“Oh yeah,” Michael said, and licked from balls to head. 

“Wait. Kiss me.” Already Alex could taste himself on Michael’s tongue. “Now suck.” 

Michael moaned and took Alex deep, working hard and fast to yank an orgasm like Alex had done to him moments ago. Alex grasped a fistful of curls and held him still. “Slow down.” Michael moaned louder and did as he was told. Alex directed the blowjob--faster, slower, _hold still, let me fuck your mouth_. Alex loved Michael’s desperate noises, Michael’s hands grasping and pulling until he ran his hand up under Alex’s shirt, his fingertips at Alex’s collarbone and palm over his heart, like he’d done in the closet at the Emporium. Alex covered it with his own, pressing through his shirt.

“Yeah, good, you’re so good, oh, _nngh_ , fuck, I’m close-I’m close-I’m close, _ohhh_ ,” he moaned, unable to hold back, pleasure flexing in his groin, his gut, his heart. Michael swallowed and gentled his mouth and swallowed again before he slipped off Alex’s cock and rested his head on Alex’s lap. “You good?” Alex asked him.

His face still turned away on Alex’s thigh, Michael gave him a thumbs up. Alex barked with laughter, bouncing Michael off his lap. He sat up and they grinned at each other like idiots.

“Well, this is convenient.” Alex hiked his jeans up and zipped.

“What’s convenient? Sex on demand?” 

Alex chuckled and then smiled toothily. “Swallowing.” 

Michael wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb and sucked it clean. “Can’t argue with how contractually obligated testing beats dating. Hard enough to hook up holding down two jobs, without taking the time to find someone decent enough to deal with long enough to do the testing thing.” Alex stilled and Michael rushed, “Not that I’m complaining! I’m just saying…” 

“Saying what?” 

“Things are easier this way. Being your Companion.” 

“Things like--” Alex waved over their laps “--sex? The Companion thing complicates sex.”

“No, it simplifies sex a whole lot with the tests and the rules. It tells you what to do--and bonus! No condoms.”

“No, yeah, you’re right,” Alex backpedaled. “It simplifies sex but it complicates…” He could have said _us_ if he were brave. “...dating.” 

“Again, who has time for dating. I don’t.” Michael flopped his hand at the concept of dating and the remainder of Alex’s contentment drained away. “Things are about to get busy from here on out, because when you don’t need me, I’ll be at the Emporium to get ready for the gala. Their schedule’s slipping, which I knew would happen but did they listen to me? They did not.” 

“We went on a date,” Alex blurted. He was out of the closet, now. Alex lingered in that thought. He was _out_. He could date. Openly. And the thing was, he _had_ gone on a date. 

“Huh?” 

“We went to a movie. You and I. Back in February.” 

“Black Panther? That wasn’t a date.” 

“We shared a bucket of popcorn. I paid. It was a date.” 

“There was no kissing.” 

“I dunno,” Alex said. “You were cuddled up pretty close during the movie.” 

“I was _asking questions_.” 

“And you got jealous.” 

“What?!” 

“The girls. And Kate’s cousin.” 

“Forrest,” Michael said darkly. “Fine. I was jealous. But it wasn’t a date. We didn’t even make out. No action; not a date.” 

“Maybe I don’t put out on the first date.” 

“Oh really.” 

“Okay, I totally do, but then it’s just hooking up.” 

Michael smiled, inward-focused. “Maybe. Thing is, the movie wasn’t our first date.” 

“So what was our first date?” 

“I took you out to the Wild Pony the day you got your leg.” 

“Oh!” Maybe it was even more of a date than dinner and a movie. Michael drove, they went to a bar for a beer, Alex introduced Michael to his friend, and the night ended with Michael’s hands on Alex. Not for sex, but for tenderness, and wasn’t that more romantic? More...date-like? More like a relationship? “I guess that makes the tour of the Emporium our third date.” 

“And _that_ was a prime example of the upsides to signing a contract with built-in STD screening. I mean, doing it bareback is hot.” 

“It really is.” 

“I’m a big fan.” 

“We could go home and do more of this in bed,” suggested Alex, thinking _whatever this is._

*

Over the next few weeks Alex spent his days following Jesse. With the gala breathing down his neck, Michael spent more time at the Emporium while Alex went solo--and used his leg too much. He didn’t need his physical therapist to tell him so, but: “You’re a smart guy,” Kenny said. “You know what you’ll face if you keep it up.” Alex gritted his teeth and nodded, and Kenny said, “Don’t yeah yeah yeah me. You’re saying it with your face. Take off the leg and let’s see what we’re working with.” 

The limb was swollen, the skin irritated. After Alex’s exercises, the therapist fetched a cool, damp towel, directed Alex to gently massage the end of his stump, and then helped him reassemble himself with the clean sock from Alex’s bag. 

“It’s tough to juggle everything in your life,” said Kenny, “but put more effort into finding that balance. Believe it or not, your learning curve is flattening out. Be proud! Your gait and your core strength are beautiful. You will work up to wearing your leg full time. Just not today. And not this week.” 

Alex thanked him, hiding his resentment poorly he was sure. He wanted to pick up Jesse’s trail this afternoon: he’d leave Walker Air Force Base at 1400. There was no way to know how long it would take, or if Alex would have to follow a lead on foot. Kenny warned him: cut back use of the prosthetic and rest his stump now or risk skin injuries that would require he put aside his leg until they healed, and that could be days. Weeks. 

Hunger didn’t improve his mood. But hunger was fixable. Maybe it was the singular thing under his control at the moment. 

A burger this time. French fries and a shake. 

At the Crashdown, a teenager he didn’t know led him to a table. He considered inviting Michael, who was at the Emporium, to the point that he pulled out his phone and opened a new text, but he hesitated. People ate lunch together. He and Michael ate meals together all the time, but to call him up and ask him to meet at the Crashdown had the feel of a spur-of-the-moment date. Why did that feel weird? Before Alex decided, someone said his name. He locked his phone and looked up. 

“Oh my god, is that Alex Manes?” 

The name slotted instantly into the voice as the woman approached his table: Isobel Evans. She was more striking now than she’d been in high school, still embracing high fashion and obviously with the wallet to keep up. _We’re connected somehow_ , Michael had told him.

“That’s the rumor,” Alex replied. He searched the woman’s face for any trace of Michael and found none. 

Isobel smiled at him, arms crossed and hip cocked, and as she slid into the booth across from him, she said, “Can I join you for a minute?” 

“Apparently.” 

“Oh, hello, I remember that sass.” 

“Sass?” They barely talked in high school, but Alex and her brother Max took the same science requirements three years running. Occasionally they would hang out together, usually in a group including Liz Ortecho. Isobel was a cool breeze back then, there and gone again, always making an impression. Alex could see nothing of Michael in Max or Isobel. 

“So the reunion is coming up,” she said. “June second. Did you get the invitation?” 

“I did.” It had come to his old Yahoo email he made during senior year and was still sitting in his inbox, read but ignored. He could stand to catch up with old classmates but running into Kate and Jasmine had left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Tell me you’re coming.” 

“I haven’t decided.” Alex kicked himself. He could have lied and sent her on her way. 

She smirked as if she knew his regret, and then her expression softened. “You were missed at the New Year's Day parade. I organized it.” 

“My royal wave wasn’t up to par at the time.” 

“Was that your excuse?” She gave him a blatant once-over. “Well, you look up for anything now.” 

The teenager came to take their order. “Oh, I’m not staying,” Isobel said. She glanced out the window as Alex ordered his hamburger, but when the waitress left, she continued to stare out at the sky as if daydreaming. She blinked, returned her attention to Alex, and then continued her campaign to get him to the reunion, “You were a band geek, right?” 

“Jazz band,” he replied, mildly irked. 

“Oh, embrace it. Everyone was embarrassing in high school. I worked on the yearbook all four years. But the point is, you know them. And you used to hang around with Liz Ortecho, too, right? They’ll all be there. You should come.” 

“I’ll think about it.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he said, “No, I really will think about it. Life’s a little unstructured lately.” 

“You know, if you have someone you want to bring, don’t be shy.” 

Alex raised his chin, cautious and curious about the rumors circulating about him, about Michael. “Who do you think I would bring?” 

“According to the grapevine, you have a Companion.” Her directness was refreshing, at least. “They’d be welcome. Whoever you bring would be welcome.” 

“I will consider it.” If Michael wanted to go, Alex would go. 

“That’s all I can ask.” Isobel laid her palms flat on the table and pushed up. “People would love to see you Alex. Really. I’m glad I got to.” 

“Yeah, you too,” he said and, since she left him to eat in peace, meant it. 

*

A text from Michael chimed through as Alex dredged his last french fry in ketchup.

> Michael: where ru?

> Michael: call me when u get this

Alex wiped his hands and called.

“Did you get the email?” 

“Hello, and what email?” 

“This guy from the Program called me. He said he sent you an email this morning.” 

“I haven’t looked. What’d he want?” 

“It’s an inspection,” Michael said, grim. “A surprise inspection. Today.” 

Alex listened to Michael jitter over the phone for a bit, puzzled at his nerves, and then suggested Michael drive them home. Alex would leave his car, and they could retrieve it tomorrow. “So when will we be inspected?” 

“Today!” 

“I got that part. What time?” 

“He said to check with you and then call back to confirm a window. Noon to four or four to eight.” 

“It’s already after twelve, so call him back and say four to eight, then come pick me up. I’m at the Crashdown.”

Michael double-parked in front of the Crashdown before Alex finished paying the bill. “Did you levitate over?” Alex asked as he slid into the truck and slammed the door. 

“No. What? No.” 

“Hey.” Alex hesitated to touch him out in the open, in daylight, where anyone could see. He settled his crutch instead. “Are you worried about this inspection?” 

“Aren’t you?” Michael looked over his shoulder and zipped into traffic. 

“No. I read the email. This is just standard compliance stuff. Ticking off boxes.” 

“What if we’re out of compliance?” 

“Did you read the guidelines?”

“I skimmed them.” He glanced at Alex and away again quickly. “Parts of them.” 

Alex grinned out of his window. “We’re not out of compliance.” 

“You laughing at me?” 

“Why would I laugh at you?” He shoved Michael’s shoulder, then trailed his hand off Michael’s elbow, which earned him Michael’s hand on his knee until they crossed Route 70, well out of town, where Alex laid his arm across the back of the seat so he could play with the hair at Michael’s nape. 

Michael was calmer but not entirely mollified. “Could they mess with our contract?” 

"They're just making sure no one’s getting abused or breaking regulations, which we aren’t, so no, they can’t. I could release you, or you could petition to be released. There’s a form you can fill out." Alex took a breath and added, “I wouldn’t release you. But you can ask the inspector about the form. If you wanted to.” 

“Oh. I don’t need to ask.” The drone of tires on the roadway took over. Alex continued to indulge his desire to touch Michael’s hair. When they pulled onto the long driveway, Michael added, “I don’t want to be released.” 

*

The inspector was not what Alex expected. 

“Dane,” said the inspector. He wore a well-tailored suit and drove a Lexus. Michael commented from the window as it drove up. He loomed over Alex in his wheelchair at the table, offering his hand. “Dane Wilson. You must be Mr. Manes. It’s my pleasure to take care of you.” 

“Have a seat. Call me Alex.” Wilson withdrew three iPads from his leather bag, and after a moment, Alex said, “And this is Michael Guerin.” 

“Yes, of course he is.” Wilson tapped through screens on one pad and then the other, totally absorbed. 

Michael shrugged. Alex was miffed on his behalf. 

“Ah, I see!” It was like Wilson arose from the depths. “This Companion contract has a creative construction, but any standard Companion survey works, so we’re good.” He finally made eye contact with Michael but didn’t offer his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Michael.” 

He addressed Alex. “I have questionnaires queued up for you and your Companion on these iPads. It’s a simple rating scale, one to ten, but there are quite a few questions and it does get a little tedious. There are no right or wrong answers, so don’t hold back. Just mark N/A for those services not included in your contract. Alex, while you fill out your questionnaire, Michael can take me on a tour of the premises, and then when Michael is filling out his questionnaire, you and I can have a private chat. Will that suit? Do you have specific arrangements with your Companion that I need to know about? An Adjustment of Personal Boundaries addendum or…?” 

“No.” Even though he and Michael had gone over the process as described in the email, Michael shifted in his chair, his mouth tense. Wilson’s proprietary attitude grated Alex as well. 

“All right then. If you would be so kind as to lend me Michael.” 

“Oh, please do be so kind,” Michael said, and Alex gave a little cough.

Michael and Wilson trooped through the kitchen to the bathroom and bedroom. Alex began ticking off questions as he listened. _And you share this bathroom? Hm. And do you sleep here or do you sleep in your room? Ah, I see. And this leads outside. What a rustic view._ The bedroom door closed. Alex heard indistinct speaking but nothing clear enough to understand what was being said. 

The first few pages of questions were mundane. He rated them one by one, giving accurate answers, not necessarily positive ones. A survey with all tens would be more suspect than a few less-than-perfect marks, and Michael was kind of a slob. 

Then he got to the section on Deportment.

> On a scale of 1 to 10 where 1 is Strongly Disagree and 10 is Strongly Agree, please rate the following questions:
> 
>   * My Companion initiates non-sexual acts of physical comfort at a rate I find satisfying
>   * My Companion initiates sexual acts of comfort at a rate I find satisfying
>   * My Companion responds positively to overtures of non-sexual physical contact at a rate I find satisfying
>   * My Companion responds positively to overtures of sexual contact at a rate I find satisfying
> 


N/A was an option and Alex avoided all the questions relating to sex or performance in social situations. He answered the questions relating to non-sexual physical comfort. He gave top marks on all of those.

Eventually Wilson and Michael returned, coming in from the back porch after having spent at least half an hour in the bunkhouse. Michael was ruffled as a wet cat and hiding it well enough for everyone in the room to politely ignore. Wilson maintained his smooth politeness as he offered Michael an iPad and urged him to complete it in his own quarters, if he would be so kind. 

_Be so kind._ Alex wanted to punch him. Why couldn’t he be more like the woman who helped him choose Michael in the first place, during his stay at Walter Reed? Didn’t they work for the same company? 

“A private interview is required for both parties, of course.” 

“Of course,” Alex echoed, sour. 

“I see that this is a Gift Contract, sponsored by Solon Companion Company at the anonymous wish of your benefactor. It is a generous gift, but just a drop in the bucket of appreciation this country has for your sacrifice.” Alex maintained his parade rest expression to avoid rolling his eyes as Dane continued. “Your Michael is capable and willing to serve as your full-service Companion, but exploring the Intimacy Clause certainly isn’t _mandatory_. It is, however, absolutely expected, so please don’t hold back if that’s where your preferences take you. But,” he said as Alex struggled to remain silent, “even though your Michael apparently functions more as a Personal Care Assistant than a Companion, I do have to ask: has your Companion ignored, opposed, or otherwise disregarded any of your orders, wishes, or commands?”

“No.” 

“Has your Companion offered his services or labor to another Patron, person, commercial, government, or personal organization without your express written permission?” 

“No.”

“Has your Companion taken advantage of you, your financial resources, or property for his personal gain outside the confines of negotiated terms?” 

“ _No_.” 

“I know this is uncomfortable, but they are government-mandated questions in place to protect you and your Companion.” Wilson made a note on his iPad. “Last one: has your Companion physically, sexually, or emotionally abused you or caused you harm?”

“No.” 

“Overall, how has your experience been? Just general impressions, or if you have any specific compliments or complaints.”

“It’s been fine.” _He’s made the shittiest time of my life survivable._

“Do you have any questions or concerns?”

“No.” 

“Remember, your Companion is there to provide comfort. Don’t be shy about taking it.” 

Wilson left after gathering Michael’s iPad and another handshake for Alex, none for Michael. 

In a lighter mood, Michael asked, “So how’d you rate me?” 

“Are you--” Alex had to clear his throat “--happy? Here?” 

The upturned lines of Michael’s face gently fell into sincerity. “Are you?” 

Silence hung in the dimming light of sunset, the most satisfying answer, until Michael ducked his head and nodded at the guitar on its stand. “If you're in the mood to play, I’ll get dinner going.” 

After eating, Michael started clearing off the table. Alex scrolled through his phone with one hand and absently massaged his left thigh the other. He should haul out his laptop to see if any of his inquiries in the wilds of the dark web generated any action, but it was nearly ten. The idea of bed and a book was a powerful draw. Maybe knock another show off his Netflix queue. 

“Hey,” Michael said, pulling Alex’s attention back into the room as he released the wheelchair brake. “I’m initiating an act of non-sexual physical comfort. Is this a rate you find satisfying?” It startled a laugh out of Alex as Michael pushed him into the bedroom. “None of that, this is serious. I’m fulfilling my purpose.” 

The amusement drained away. “Those questions were horrifying.” 

“I stuck to the story, but good old Dane sure seemed surprised that we weren’t knocking boots.”

“It’s none of their business.” 

“Oh, I agree. But apparently they’re happy to cheer on institutionalized fornication.” 

“Oh my god.” Alex laughed again.

“Now take off your pants and get on the bed.” 

“I thought this was an act of non-sexual physical comfort?” 

“No, you’re right. Take your shower and get on the bed. Then I’ll bring you drugs and rub you till you feel better.” Michael was serious, though, and Alex’s smile faded. “PT didn’t go the way you wanted it to, did it? There’s a look you get. And you would have been eating chicken nuggets in the parking lot of the CircleK for lunch, watching the fort, not dipping your filthy fries at the Crashdown.” 

The breadth and ease of how Michael tended him left Alex speechless with wonder that anyone would take such care with him and choked him with how he took that care for granted. 

“C’mon, shower. Chop-chop. Oh, wait.” Michael loped down the hall and returned with the crutches. 

“Oh, wait,” Alex echoed, hit by a sudden realization. “I ran into Isobel Evans at the Crashdown. Or, it was more like she ran into me.”

The easy energy washed out of Michael. His eyes widened and his mouth opened like a kid. “What?” 

“I got distracted by the whole inspection thing and totally forgot. She saw me and came over to say hi and try to talk me into going to our high school reunion.” 

Michael moved through the surprise. “You say anything about me?” 

“No, of course not,” Alex said. “But she knew about you.” 

“She did?” The surprise was back.

“She didn’t know about you specifically, just that I had a Companion.” Then he blurted, “She said you were welcome. You would be welcome.”

“Welcome?” 

“At the reunion. You should come. She and Max will be there.” 

“I thought you weren’t going.” 

“I could,” he said, “I mean, yeah. I’m going, and you can come meet Isobel and Max.” 

“Huh.” Michael stared off. 

“If you want. It’s not--” Alex struggled to find the least offensive word “--required.” 

“No, yeah,” said Michael, present again. “No, I get it.” 

“It’s the first week of June. You got time to think about it.” 

Michael dropped the subject. He chivvied Alex into the shower and out again, brought him one of the good pain pills and a full glass of water, and then gave a technically perfect massage of his residual limb. “You got to give healing room to happen,” he said, reciting Kenny’s favorite phrase, but he kept the lecture quiet and short. Michael’s touch and the lassitude of oxycodone were familiar comforts. 

“I’ll check on you after I clean up out there.” 

“Mm-hm.” Out there. Did that mean he would come back _in here_? Alex hardly made sense to himself, he was so muzzy and relaxed. He lost a little time, listening to the domestic rush of water and muted clatter of dishes, and then Michael was back, rolling him under the covers. Alex complained, “I used to take two at a time all day. I’m such a lightweight now.” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Michael plugged the charging cable into Alex’s phone, clicked off the light, and ran his hand over Alex’s shoulder and down his back through the covers. He leaned close and kissed Alex’s cheek. “You’ll be better in the morning.” Alex didn’t hear him leave but he must have, because Alex was alone in bed.

Alex could live by himself. Until the contract ran out, he didn’t have to.


	12. Chapter 12

_On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your level of obedience?_

_Has your Patron threatened to release you unless you provided additional services not included in the contract?_

Almost a week later, and the inspection still gnawed at Michael. To have their--to have what was between them reduced to a series of impersonal, invasive questions. Initially he’d been relieved to get through it without any problems, but he kept unwillingly returning to it.

_Has your Patron physically forced you to perform sexual acts not contained in the Intimacy Clause?_

A clatter of dishes and silverware shook him out of his reverie. He and Alex had swung by the Crashdown for a quick dinner after a grocery run. Part of him flinched every time they went in, expecting Isobel Evans to be lurking in a corner booth, and he still didn’t feel ready to meet her. He was going to have to face it soon, though, with the reunion coming up.

He and Alex had discussed it. They agreed that he couldn’t keep avoiding Max and Isobel forever, and Alex didn’t even know the other two might be aliens, all the more reason for Michael to meet them. At least at the reunion, the meeting would be on Michael’s terms, rather than running into them in town when he wasn’t prepared.

“Sorry for the delay,” Arturo said as he dropped off their plates. “Rosa is working late at the Emporium, finishing the mural, and I couldn’t find anyone to cover her shift.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Ortecho,” Alex said, reaching for the ketchup.

“Alex…” Arturo waved a finger at him.

Alex corrected himself. “Right. Arturo.”

Michael, who had already witnessed three iterations of this conversation, took the chance to steal some fries from Alex’s plate. Alex’s quick glance let him know that he’d noticed the theft.

“Liz is very excited that you’ll be at the reunion,” Arturo said to Alex.

“I can’t wait to see her either. How long can she stay?”

Arturo beamed at them, happier than Michael had ever seen him. “Her grant has ended, so she’ll probably stay here for a few months and visit while she applies for new ones.”

“That’s great,” Alex said. “I know you and Rosa will love having her home.”

“She works too hard. She needs some time to relax and eat home cooking.”

“Michael could pitch in right now, if you’re short-staffed.” Alex arched an eyebrow at Michael, daring him to contradict what he’d said. “Wash some dishes, mop the floor.”

“No,” Arturo demurred, “please enjoy your food. There aren’t so many customers now. As soon as I take the trash out, I can take a break.”

Alex kicked him in the shin.

“I can do that,” Michael volunteered, waving off Arturo’s protest. “No, it’s no problem. It’ll only take a second. Alex takes forever to eat anyway.” 

“Thank you,” Arturo said, giving in. “The bags are by the back door. I’ll bring you another plate of fries so you don’t have to share.”

“That’s what you get for taking my food without asking,” Alex teased him as Arturo headed to a table on the other side of the diner.

“You know fries taste better when they belong to someone else.” Michael wondered if he could give Alex a quick kiss, then wondered if he was overthinking it, and then Alex was talking and the chance had passed.

“Better hurry, or I’ll eat them all.”

Michael gathered the two big bags and bumped the back door open with his hip, toeing the cinder block into place to hold it. He made it down three steps before the sound of a spray paint can intruded into his awareness.

“You have to be kidding me,” Michael said. “You can’t even wait until it’s dark? You got a big date you’re rushing off to?”

The man holding the spray can froze for a second. Michael had never spoken to him before, but Maria had bitched about him in the Pony and called him Racist Hank, so that boded well for a reasonable conversation.

“You belong to that Manes boy. He let you off your leash? I thought you were his whore.”

“That’s me,” Michael agreed. “But he just calls me ‘baby doll.’” He dropped the bags and sauntered down the rest of the stairs until he could read the slur Hank had spray-painted on the brick wall.

“What are you gonna do, stop me?” Hank sneered. “Better call your boyfriend for backup.”

“Trust me, I don’t need any help to beat your ass.”

Hank tossed the can to the side and took two steps towards Michael, then rushed at him in a transparent attempt to take him off guard. Michael deflected his charge with a stiff arm and politely waited for Hank to recover his footing. He came up swinging with a punch that glanced off the side of Michael’s jaw but caught enough to split the inside of his lip against his teeth.

The taste of blood filled Michael’s mouth, and he spat it out before retaliating with a hit to Hank’s stomach that doubled him over. Preparing to follow it with a blow to the jaw, he pulled up short at the shout that rang through the air.

“Hey! What the hell are you two doing?” Alex started down the concrete steps until Michael blocked his path, moving to stand between him and Hank. He knew Alex wouldn’t appreciate it, but they could argue about it after the asshole was gone.

Michael gestured to the painted wall. “Hank here was decorating the building without a permit.” 

“So you hit him?” Alex asked incredulously.

“He hit me first.” Michael was aware that he sounded like a third-grader complaining about a bully, but Hank _had_ started it.

“Hank, get out of here before I call the sheriff.”

With a last ugly glare at Michael, Hank lumbered away, his first steps unsteady. Michael fervently hoped that shot to the gut hurt him for a few days. The cut inside his bottom lip throbbed with his heartbeat.

“Hey, you left your spray can!” he called after Hank. He turned to Alex, expecting to share a laugh at Hank’s cowardice, but Alex was livid, his cheeks flushed and lips pressed together.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

Michael gaped at him for a moment, unprepared for his anger. “What’s the big deal? Last time I checked, chasing off a racist asshole was a good thing.”

“Getting in a fistfight is not a good thing, no matter who you’re fighting with!”

“I wasn’t going to lose, if that’s what you were worried about.”

“I’m _responsible_ for you, Michael. You can’t do stupid shit like this. It’s bad enough that half of the town thinks you’re my--”

“Your what? Your whore?” Michael felt like a child again, powerless, being scolded for something that wasn’t his fault.

“You’re not a prostitute. I don’t own you.”

“Don’t know why people might think that,” Michael shot back. “It’s not like you sent me to take out someone else’s trash. I’m surprised you didn’t make him sign a permission slip.”

The color drained out of Alex’s face. Michael saw his throat work before Alex dug in his pocket and tossed him a crumpled napkin. “You have blood all over your mouth. Clean it up before you come back inside.”

He left Michael stewing in the alley. The ruckus with Hank had got his blood up, but this steely anger from Alex had Michael thrumming with reaction. He took his time cleaning up, to pull himself together and hopefully piss off Alex further.

A steaming hot order of fries sat on the table. Michael ate them out of spite, prolonging the awkward silence into which Alex frowned, pissy. Michael refused to break first. Arturo took the check and money from Alex, his head bowed and expression anxious. He knew what was up, and Michael regretted making him uncomfortable. Arturo was a nice man. He didn’t deserve to be frozen out.

Alex did. Michael made a point to stare out the window or at his phone as Alex drove them home, and they maintained the cold war until Alex turned onto the long driveway to the cabin and finally broke the standoff. “How is it?” he asked as they bumped over the dirt road.

“What?”

“Your lip.”

“It’s not my lip that stings.”

Alex parked the Jeep, killed the engine, and frowned at him. “Where else did he get you?”

“He’s not the guy who landed _that_ one,” said Michael, and then got out, slamming the door behind him and stalking off to the bunkhouse. He heard Alex swear and the driver’s door slam and the crunch of gravel. Without turning around, Michael said, “You need anything else or can I go to my room?”

Alex grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Stop it.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael almost saluted, but that would be too far, too hurtful. He still had to fight with himself not to do it.

Alex slammed the side of his fist into the bunkhouse door hard enough for Michael to worry that he’d hurt himself. “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t have called the cops if I’d wanted to. If you get in any kind of trouble like that, the contract is gone. Nothing I can do about it.”

Michael’s stomach lurched. _Fuck._ He hadn’t thought about that. What if this spat with Hank had gone wrong? What if Arturo had called 911? He and Hank both would have been arrested, and even if they let him off with a warning, it’d go on his record, immediately ending the contract.

“Sorry,” he said. The apology seemed to take the air out of Alex’s sails. “I didn’t--anyway. Sorry.”

Alex dug his teeth into his bottom lip, considering for a moment, and then looked down at the wooden boards under their feet. “Me too. I didn’t mean to order you around like that, at the diner. I was only teasing you. Or trying to.”

“The thing is--” Michael tried to figure out how to say it without saying it until he lost patience with himself and just said it. “It’s not like I really mind. You telling me what to do.”

Alex’s gaze snapped up to focus on Michael. “I--wait, what?”

“Like you haven’t noticed.” By now, he’d spent enough time listening to Alex whisper explicit, thrilling words while the two of them tangled together in the dark of his bedroom. _Kiss me, suck me, use your teeth, tell me you want me._ Alex liked doing it as much as Michael liked that little zing of pleasure every time Alex’s instructions slid into a stream of _yes, good, so good, fuck, you’re so good._

“Telling you what to do in bed is one thing. But not--”

“I’m not saying I want you ordering me around all day and loaning me out to wash glasses at the Pony. But I’ve told you before that I like doing stuff for you. All kinds of stuff.” Even in the midst of the argument, it made Michael hot to think about the satisfaction that filled him when he brought Alex a meal or helped him with an exercise.

“I like that you like it,” Alex said, acknowledging the circularity of what he was saying with a rueful smile. “It doesn’t mean I think about you that way. You’re not my servant.”

“No, but I’m your Companion.” He held up a hand to interrupt Alex’s immediate refusal. “And I know you don’t want to treat me like that, and you worry about what people think. Us together, it’s got to be outside of the contract or it won’t work.”

“We can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“We can work around it,” Michael suggested. “Like, if I told you what to do…”

Alex’s eyes narrowed, and his head tilted speculatively. Michael could almost feel the weight of his regard, like fingers stroking across skin. “Yeah? You got any ideas?”

“I might.”

He wanted. He wanted Alex’s hands on his hips, pulling them together. He needed Alex panting under him, overwhelmed and mindless with lust. He wanted every word out of both their mouths to be _yes_. And hadn’t Alex told him he could have what he wanted?

The kiss was slow, unhurried like they’d burned off all of the anger and confusion in the flare of argument, leaving behind pure blue flame. He luxuriated in the feeling of Alex’s lips, his skin, his breath on Michael’s face, even the flicker of pain from his cut lip. He loved how Alex was solid but dynamic, in constant motion. His tongue stroked silkily along Michael’s, deep and even, while his hands roamed across Michael’s back.

“I really don’t want to do this in the bunkhouse,” Michael said. “The bed in there is terrible.”

Alex snorted into the kiss and pulled back. “Good thing you’ve been sleeping in mine, then.”

They maneuvered through the cabin hand in hand, still unrushed. When they reached the bedroom, they separated to undress in the darkness, and even when they reunited on the bed, that sense of timelessness remained. 

“About these ideas of yours…”

“Uh-uh,” Michael teased. “Don’t rush me.”

With a gentle push, he urged Alex to lie flat on his back, then swung a leg over to straddle him. The motion brushed his cock against Alex’s, who rolled into it until Michael scooted up a little further. Alex’s bright eyes and eager face made him wonder how he’d signed up to earn some money and ended up with this.

Michael pinned Alex’s arms on either side of his head and resumed the kiss they’d started outside, deeper and filthier. Normally he was fine with whatever they did in bed, but the inspection and the argument and the upcoming reunion had him on an uncertain edge, and he wanted Alex, sure and steady underneath him. Whatever he was given, whatever he took, it wasn’t enough.

“Michael,” Alex murmured against his lips, even as he kept kissing him. “Come on, I want you.”

“Doesn’t matter what you want.”

He broke the kiss to pull back and check in with Alex, and the half-smile on his face spurred Michael to continue.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna stay right there, and I’m gonna do whatever _I_ want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Mmmm.” He kissed Alex again, a slow, fervent exploration that Alex opened to without hesitation. “I’m gonna get you wet. Wet enough that I can just climb on your dick. And then I'm gonna fuck myself with it, and you have to lie there and take it."

"Yes," Alex hissed, "yes, do that." He slipped his arms out of Michael's hold and wrapped them around his back, pulling him down, pulling them closer together. Michael allowed it for a minute while they kissed and thrust against each other, and shit, he could already feel Alex, precome leaving trails across his skin wherever his cock brushed against Michael.

“Hands to yourself." Michael placed Alex's hands on either side of his head again. "Keep them there."

He checked again to make sure Alex was into it, but Alex’s mouth hung open, and as Michael watched, he ran his tongue over his glistening lips like he was tasting what Michael had left there. Michael kissed his way down Alex’s chest, indulging himself with licks and bites wherever he wanted, before he reached his cock and slid his mouth over it.

“Shit,” Alex gasped, and his arms twitched like he wanted to grab Michael’s head, but he remembered and settled back down. Michael rewarded him by taking him deeper, flattening his tongue and stroking it along Alex’s cock as he took it down. He loved the sounds that slipped out of Alex whenever Michael sucked him. His breath caught as Michael sped up, making it wet and messy.

Sucking Alex's cock gave him that warm buzz, but Michael was ready for a more direct method of satisfaction. Michael didn't have any problem with missionary, or with lying on his side while Alex pinned him between his cock and his hand and made him beg. But on top of Alex, he could control everything: depth, speed, angle. He could look down at Alex or close his eyes and concentrate on his other senses—the sound of their bodies coming together, the heavy smell of sex.

He dripped some lube on Alex's cock and smeared it quickly, then positioned himself over it and began easing down. He had to go slow, down and back up again, deeper each time, and after a few minutes Michael could settle his weight fully on Alex and rest there, savoring how fucking good it felt.

Alex’s hands settled on Michael’s thighs. "You planning to stay there all night?" He expected Alex to look teasing or tense, but instead he just looked happy.

"Maybe." Michael clenched around Alex both for his indrawn breath and for the thud of pleasure that thrummed through him.

"You could try moving," Alex suggested, the word swallowed in a gasp when Michael rocked back and forth.

“You could try keeping your hands where I told you. Maybe you need some help with that.” Michael grasped Alex’s hands and put them back in place, leaning down to put weight on them and hold them there. That brought him within kissing range, which Alex took immediate advantage of, quick kisses interrupted every time Michael moved and they both had to gasp for breath.

He needed more—more force, more depth, more of the drag as he sat back and began riding Alex hard. Alex grabbed feebly at the sheet under him but couldn't get a hold on it, so he tucked his hands under his head.

"Good," Michael said, "that's good. Just like that," as he moved faster, chasing the building wave of bliss. Alex felt so good inside him, so fucking hard, and every time Michael raised up was a loss, and every time he came back down was a new joining.

Alex begged him, "Michael, let me touch you, please, please," hands creeping back out from under his head.

"Not yet," Michael ordered. "Not until you come." He was desperate to come—they both were—but he knew exactly what he wanted, so he put his hands behind him on Alex's legs and leaned back, testing until he found the position that made Alex sound the most desperate.

"Oh, fuck, I have to come, please let me--" Alex pushed up with what leverage he could get, slamming into Michael as he came down, and again, and that did it. Alex's cock throbbed inside him, and Michael kept moving on it, easing up as the spasms slowed and the gasping whimpers ebbed.

"Now, now you can touch me--"

"Get up here," Alex said, grabbing behind Michael's knees and tugging. He awkwardly half-walked up the bed until he could wedge his knees in Alex's armpits. Alex stole his breath by lifting his head and taking Michael's cock into his mouth, urging him to move and thrust against his tongue until Michael had to flatten a hand to the wall behind the bed just to stay upright. His orgasm was good, but it was almost as good to pull out of Alex's mouth and wiggle until he could lie down next to him, his head resting on Alex's outstretched arm.

“I've got you,” Alex whispered. He lifted his arm and encouraged Michael to roll into him, both their chests heaving. "I've got you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting.


	13. Chapter 13

They pulled up to the reunion site, some old warehouse that had been converted into an event space. Several open loading doors allowed the party to spill outside, and a grill full of burgers and hot dogs sent fragrant smoke through the air. Alex had pushed Michael to arrive on the early side, which he suspected was to let Alex get comfortable with a crowd and an unfamiliar place.

Michael hung back as Alex walked in and greeted a few people with waves. He spied the bar across the room, but it would reflect poorly on Alex if his Companion arrived and headed straight for hard liquor. No matter how tempting it was.

His body knew he was nervous, but his brain couldn’t decide what to worry about. He wished he could feel one thing, focus on one thing at a time. Instead, the possibility of meeting Max and Isobel Evans intruded on his feelings for Alex, which were colored by the way Alex’s friends might look at him. Not as a person. Not even as a date or a boyfriend. Alex’s Companion.

They should have talked about it, he realized too late. How to handle this public appearance as Patron and Companion. He didn’t care what people thought about their relationship, but Alex did, and after their fight outside the Crashdown, Michael was torn between not wanting to embarrass him and the urge to get in the face of anyone who implied he was a prostitute. But what did Alex need him to do?

Maybe the safest course was to be Alex’s Companion, by the book. Maybe if everyone saw him supporting Alex, physically and emotionally, they’d take it at face value.

Maybe a beer wasn't a bad idea.

"Hey, you want a beer?" he asked Alex.

"Yeah, sure. I'm gonna--" Alex gestured to a sofa and table set up on one side of the room. 

Michael nodded at Maria as he passed the table where she was telling fortunes. A blonde woman sat in front of her, and Michael had to wonder if that was Isobel Evans. But Alex had promised to point out Max or Isobel when he saw them, so Michael could observe before deciding whether to approach. It felt a little chickenshit, but there were too many unknowns for Michael’s comfort.

He returned in time to see Alex getting to his feet, already halfway into a hug with a dark-haired woman. He hurriedly set the bottles on the table and positioned himself to support Alex if necessary. “It’s so good to see you,” the woman said into Alex’s neck as she embraced him. “How are you doing?”

“Pretty good, considering,” Alex said. He shot a pointed look at Michael, clearly wondering why he was hovering. Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes and waited to see where the woman landed. When she pulled up an ottoman, Michael sat down next to Alex on the couch.

“And how is your…” She trailed off, waiting for Alex to fill in the blank, and when he didn’t, the pause grew awkward. Michael enjoyed watching people’s reactions to Alex’s injury and prosthesis. Some, like this woman, tried to be delicate. Others just charged in tactlessly and got a figurative swat on the nose.

“My father?” Alex shrugged. “Still a huge asshole, thanks for asking.”

She inhaled, choked on her breath, and coughed, all while Alex maintained that expression of faux-innocence that he did so well. “Fine, I can take a hint. How’s your leg?”

“Making progress.” Alex left it at that, and she caught on quick this time, changing the subject.

“Introduce me to your Companion.” She looked at Michael expectantly.

“Michael Guerin, this is the infamous Liz Ortecho.”

Michael inclined his head at her in greeting. She looked a lot like Rosa: same build, same dark hair and eyes. He braced for her reaction, whether it was a crude joke or a suggestive look. Liz did neither, though. Instead, she batted at Alex’s knee.

“Infamous? What stories have you been telling him?”

“Not me,” Alex said. “You can register any complaints with Rosa.”

“Right, you got her the job at the UFO Emporium,” Liz said to Michael. “She appreciates it, even if she has a problem saying the words ‘thank you’.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Michael said. “The mural’s looking good.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m kind of excited to see the UFO Emporium once it reopens,” Liz said.

“Michael gave me a sneak peek a couple of months ago. It’s surprisingly cool,” Alex said. “I even got a tour of a storage room.”

It was Michael’s turn to cough and choke, while Alex’s poker face never wavered. Michael vowed to get him back for that later, preferably in a way that resulted in Alex begging him for mercy.

“Did seeing the Emporium bring back memories?” Liz asked.

“Yeah, it did,” Alex replied. “Do you remember that time Rosa snuck in the back and spray painted the styrofoam saucers so they had little eyes that glowed in the dark? Graham almost passed out the first time he turned on the black light.”

Every story Michael heard about Rosa in high school made him wish he’d known her back then. They could have raised some serious hell together.

“Oh, my god,” Liz said, as gleeful as a child on Christmas morning. “Look at that.”

Michael glanced up at one of the screens to the side of the stage that was cycling through ten-year-old photos of the attendees. He hadn’t paid much attention to them, mostly groups of smiling faces that he didn’t know. 

“Hey, I think I recognize that guy,” Michael said.

Alex was blushing and failing to hide his smile. “Did I not mention my goth phase?”

“You did not.” Teenage Alex looked--fucking hot. Hair styled up and off his forehead in reckless spikes. Black nail polish on the fingers wrapped around a guitar’s neck. A ring in his nose and rings on his fingers. And makeup, making his skin pale and his eyes huge. Teenage Michael would have jumped on him in a second.

Maybe those plans he had for later that night needed to involve a quick trip to the drugstore for some nail polish and eyeliner. But it was the second time in five minutes that he’d been publicly side-swiped by his attraction to Alex. He wanted to indulge it. Reach out and put a hand on Alex’s knee or wrap it around his shoulder. He didn’t think he should.

A high school reunion was a weird place for a date, if Alex even considered the evening a date. Could you call anything you did with a Companion “dating”?

Michael could guess most people’s answer to that. Though Alex’s closest friends hadn’t treated Michael like an object, a rehabilitation aid and sex toy in one. And Alex had never acted that way toward him. But the point of a name--whether it was boyfriend or Companion or health aide--was identification. If you knew what it was called, you knew how to treat it.

What he had with Alex was new. It was important to him, and he thought it was important to Alex. But maybe it would end when the contract ended, and it was smart to prepare for that.

“So,” Liz said, craning her neck and scanning the crowd. “Have you seen Max anywhere?”

“Look at you, trying to be so casual, asking about _Max_.” Alex drew out the name teasingly while Michael tried not to flinch. There was no way Liz knew about his interest in Max Evans.

“Shut up, forget I asked.” Liz grabbed Alex’s beer bottle out of his hands and pressed it to one blushing cheek.

“I saw Isobel at the Crashdown a while ago, but not Max. Is he still working at the Daily Record?”

Liz surrendered the bottle back to Alex. “I think so. I haven’t talked to him in a while.” When Alex raised an inquisitive eyebrow, she frowned and searched for words before settling on, “It’s complicated.”

“That’s a Facebook status, not an answer,” Alex said.

Michael tuned out their conversation and stood up. Alex gave him a quick look, and Michael nodded slightly to indicate he was okay as he made his way around the sofa and into the crowd.

Alex’s mention of the local newspaper had reminded him of the articles he’d read when deciding whether to come to Roswell. And now he remembered--Max had written almost all of them. Prosaic stories about the UFO Emporium, the Fall Festival, the unveiling of a statue at City Hall, a special triple feature at the drive-in.

He’d found them well-written, if a little boring. Nothing about them had called to him or made him feel a sense of kinship with the writer. If he had to guess, the man who wrote those articles was earnest, straightforward...and a little boring. Did that mean Max wasn’t an alien?

He tossed his empty bottle into the recycling bin and turned to check on Alex. A third person had joined the conversation, and Alex burst out laughing at something Liz said. Michael was glad to see him happy and interacting with other people.

Those burgers outside smelled good. He didn’t want to interrupt Alex, but he did want to make sure he ate something. Ten more minutes, and then he’d grab some food and bring it over.

In his wanderings, he reached Maria’s table, draped with fabric, topped with an actual crystal ball flanked by candles. Michael hovered to the side for a few minutes while she finished reading the palm of yet another tall blonde with a sour expression.

“That wasn’t Isobel Evans, was it?” he asked, after the woman had teetered off on her four-inch heels.

Maria scoffed. “Like she’d be caught dead doing something as tacky as getting her palm read. No, she’s the type to have a personal spiritual advisor who recommends drinking cucumber water and meditating twenty minutes each day on the concept of empowerment.”

Michael lowered himself onto the rickety metal chair that creaked under his weight. On the stage, the band started its set with some bland alt-rock song that he vaguely remembered being popular ten years ago.

Maria cocked her head at him, an inquiring smile on her face. “You want me to tell your fortune, Michael Guerin?”

 _Hell, no._ “Nah, I’ve got better things to do with my money.”

“No charge for friends.” She laid her hand palm-up on the table, looking at Michael expectantly, and he couldn’t think of a way to refuse that wouldn’t make it seem like a bigger deal than it was. He held out his hand, and Maria cradled it before turning his palm upright in her left hand and tracing it with the fingers of her right.

“Hmm. Very deep lines. The calluses are sexy. You’re a hard worker, but only when you think the work is worth doing.”

“Unlike most people, who love to work on stupid shit,” Michael said.

She trailed her finger down one of the lines on his palm, though he had no idea which. “You’re concerned about a new relationship, what lies beneath the surface of it.”

He checked for some sign that she was teasing him about Alex, but she seemed genuinely focused on his hand.

“You’re preoccupied with family.”

“I’m an orphan,” he found himself saying, not sure why he was confiding in Maria. “I don’t have any family.”

“Then it’s someone who might as well be family. Maybe the person from your relationship, maybe someone new.”

Michael pulled his hand away more violently than he’d intended. “You know, I think I’m holding up the paying customers.” He shoved the chair back from the table, and despite his intentions to keep the drinking to a minimum, decided another beer sounded like a really good idea.

He stepped into the line for the bar but was almost immediately tackled, practically knocked off his feet, by a woman as tall as he was. He got a brief impression of blonde hair and sharp features before she wrapped her arms around him so tightly that it hurt.

"It's you," she whispered in his ear, voice hoarse with tears. "It's you, it's you, you found us, you came back…."

He pulled back, and the woman dropped her embrace, grabbing the hand of a man standing next to her.

"Don’t you remember us?" the man asked.

"Yeah," Michael answered slowly, eyes burning. "I know who you are."

*

Whiplash disoriented him as he swung from twenty years of believing the other two kids were dead to their presence in front of him. He followed Isobel, not that he had a choice with her iron grip on his arm, as she led him to an area behind the stage.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Michael. Michael Guerin."

"I'm Isobel," the woman said, running a finger under each eye to wipe away the tears and preserve her makeup. "This is Max."

"The Evans twins." They were both around his height, Isobel actually a little taller on her sky-high stiletto heels. Max was dark-haired, blandly good-looking. Their clothes looked rich--a leather jacket and nice boots on Max, a wine-colored dress and fancy jewelry on Isobel.

"How do you know our names?" Max asked.

"Rosa Ortecho." They frowned at him, and though the expression played out differently on each face, he could sense the similarity. "It's a long story. I—I thought you were dead. Both of you."

"Oh, my god," Isobel said. "Why? What happened?"

"They told me that there was a fire at the group home, and everyone had died. I looked up the Roswell newspaper at the library, and it was true. The group home was gone."

Max blinked his eyes against tears, shaking his head. "There was a fire, but nobody got hurt. And we were adopted right after that."

"We couldn't find you," Isobel said. "We knew you were out there somewhere."

"Wait, you knew I was alive? This whole time?" Maybe he’d heard her wrong. He hoped he had.

“We could feel you for a while,” Max said, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. He kept darting glances at Michael but then looking away. “But the longer we were apart, the more it faded.”

“You didn’t come find me,” Michael said, almost to himself. To his seven-year-old self, alone in a room in a strange place, knowing that he should be with other people like him. “You didn’t do anything.”

"We tried!” Isobel protested. “We tried as hard as we could, but people had retired, died, or they just refused to talk to us."

"The two of you grew up with some rich family while I spent ten years getting moved from foster to foster, sleeping on floors, sneaking out so I wouldn't get beat up when they came home drunk and mean?" He stopped himself from yelling only because the band was in between songs, and he didn’t need anyone poking their head in to see what was going on.

He’d thought they were dead, but maybe this was worse. They’d survived. They’d _thrived_. They’d had birthday parties and summer vacations and fucking teddy bears. Parents who bandaged their scraped knees and left the night light turned on.

He should be happy. Overjoyed. Part of him still was. But a bigger part of him was shaking with fury.

“Isobel’s right,” Max said. “We tried, Michael, as soon as we turned eighteen. We found out that they took you to Albuquerque, but the juvenile records were sealed. Isobel even got in people’s heads to find out what they knew, but we hit too many dead ends.”

“You got in people’s heads?”

Isobel nodded frantically. “I can do that. Influence them and find things out. And Max can heal people.”

“Do you...do something?” asked Max.

Without looking, Michael knocked over one of the band’s equipment cases. Max and Isobel both jumped at the sudden, echoing bang. “I move things.”

“Please don’t hate us, just let me show you,” Isobel said, taking Max’s hand and reaching for Michael.

He jerked back. “You want me to let you in my head?”

Isobel looked stricken. “We’re already there, Michael. Can’t you feel us?”

All of the strange feelings he’d had since returning to Roswell suddenly came into focus. He hadn’t been able to name them or pin them down, but looking at Max and Isobel--he could sense them, like an echo of a distant sound. They’d grown up with that togetherness and relied on it for as long as they could remember, while he’d been alone.

But he couldn’t deny the pleasure of being near them. If he let it, it would soothe him. He could close his eyes and know that they were within reach. And as hesitant as he was to let Isobel in his head, part of him trusted her absolutely. She wouldn’t hurt him or make him do anything he didn’t want to. 

The longer they stood there, the more appealing it became.

“Fine,” he snapped when he couldn’t hold out any longer. “Just don’t fuck me up.”

Isobel took his hand, and the world blurred around him, resolving into a memory. His memory of the group home, the day they took him away. But it didn’t look right--

Not his memory. Their memories. The sick realization that Michael was gone, getting farther away each moment. Their desperation. Their confusion, going to a real home with parents, but without Michael.

The guilt, almost constant, knowing that Michael was alive, but out of reach. Feeling his pain--physical, emotional--and unable to help him.

Searching for him, endless hours on the internet, emailing public records departments, calling file clerks, driving to Albuquerque and Santa Fe only to be told no over and over again.

Max insisting, once they turned eighteen, that they couldn’t both leave Roswell at the same time. Someone always had to be there in case Michael came back.

Hope fading as the years passed.

After years of nothing, feeling him close again. Intermittently. But always coming back.

Walking into the reunion and knowing that he was there.

Joy. Incandescent, radiant, half-disbelieved joy.

He turned to Isobel and Max, standing next to him in this unreal dream place. They were no longer in the group home; instead the open desert stretched around them for miles, to the uninterrupted horizon. “Is this all true?”

“There are no lies in here,” Isobel promised.

Max turned to him. “Can we see your life?”

The skies in the mindspace darkened, gray clouds rolling in. “No, I don’t--”

“Please, Michael? Just a little--” He could feel Max’s mind reaching for him, and he pulled away mentally and physically, stumbling over an extension cord in a jarring transition back to reality.

As he had in the mindspace, Max reached for him, and Michael took another step backward. Isobel put her hand on Max’s arm and shook her head.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to push,” she said.

“We missed you so much.” Max’s voice cracked, and it was too much for Michael; he couldn’t be responsible for their emotions when he could barely handle his own.

“You have to go. Can you just go?” His hands clenched into fists by his sides, like he was ready to defend himself from an attack. His focus narrowed until the noise of the reunion faded out and the sound of his breaths echoed in his ears.

Isobel pulled Max’s arm until he reluctantly started following her to the door. “You’re Alex’s Companion, aren’t you? I’ll make sure he gets our numbers. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll be waiting for you.”

He watched until they left, made sure they didn’t come back, before he allowed himself to slowly sink down onto an equipment case, shaky with adrenaline. He’d envisioned a lot of possibilities. That they weren’t the other two kids. That they wouldn’t know him. That they wouldn’t _want_ to know him. That they’d thought he was dead. Somehow his imagination had failed to produce this scenario: that they’d just been living their lives, knowing he was alive, but not caring enough to find him.

“Michael?” Alex came slowly into the room, approaching him like a cornered wild animal. No sudden moves, no loud noises, a gentle touch when he leaned over Michael. Michael saw his feet and his crutch on the dark, sticky floor, and he let that define his world for a second. Alex’s shoes in front of him. Alex’s hand in his hair, stroking comfortingly. Alex’s voice as he murmured nonsense comfort words.

When he felt able, he lifted his head. “How’d you know to come in here?”

“I saw Max and Isobel tear out of here. Max didn’t even stop to look at Liz, so I knew something had happened.”

“It’s them,” Michael told him. “They knew I was alive. They just didn’t care.”

Alex gingerly lowered himself to his knees, set his crutch down, and pulled Michael to him, their foreheads touching, further narrowing Michael’s world to that small space between them, and Michael closed his eyes and held on tight.

*

Michael woke up in Alex’s bed the next morning and enjoyed a moment of lazy contentment before remembering what had happened at the reunion.

When they’d arrived back at the cabin, after he’d helped Alex settle in for the night, Alex stopped him before he left to sleep in the bunkhouse.

“You can stay here,” Alex said.

He’d only slept in Alex’s bed after sex. The offer felt like pity, but Michael couldn’t help accepting it, putting the presence of another person in between himself and his problems. Staying only for comfort was a further change in their relationship, but not one that Michael was prepared to tackle at that moment. What he had with Alex was good, and he didn’t want it to stop.

Noise in the bathroom indicated that Alex had just gotten up, so Michael rose, put on a pair of sweatpants that had relocated from the bunkhouse to Alex’s room, and went to the kitchen to start breakfast.

The clanging of a pan and the gurgle of the coffeemaker covered Alex’s approach, and Michael started when Alex spoke to him.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” he replied, dividing scrambled eggs between two plates.

“You okay?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, fine.” He knew that Alex could tell he was bluffing, but Alex let him get away with it. He wasn’t fine. He was confused, unsure what to do. Part of him longed for more contact with Max and Isobel, and part of him wanted to forget what he’d learned about their shared past.

Alex approached the counter and grabbed the coffee pot, poured a mug for himself, and pivoted to place it on the table before he took his plate and sat down. “Are you heading into town later?”

“Unless you need anything,” Michael answered.

“No,” Alex said, shaking his head. “I’m good here at least until lunch. I’ll probably just spend the day cracking my dad’s latest burner phone.”

The eggs tasted bland, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble of getting the hot sauce. “I can do a grocery run this afternoon after I’m done at the Emporium. Take a look at the list before I go and add anything that’s missing.” His empty plate went into the sink; he grabbed the grocery list from the counter and tossed it to Alex.

“I got a text last night with Max and Isobel’s contact info,” Alex said as Michael headed to the bunkhouse to get dressed. “Whenever you want it.”

“Right,” Michael said. “Whenever.”

* * *

**AITA for telling my brother-in-law the truth about his fiancee?**

Some background: My husband (41M) and I (39F) have been married for 12 years, and I've always gotten along great with his family. My parents live several hours away, so we spend most of the holidays like Thanksgiving and July 4th with my in-laws and go there a couple of times a month for dinner.

Last month, my husband's brother came to dinner and brought his fiancée. He'd talked about her before, and his parents love her, but this is the first time my husband and I met her. Right away, I felt like something was wrong. My BIL is okay-looking, but his fiancée could be a model. She kept talking about all these places she's been, like London and Mexico City and Brussels. I couldn't figure out what a woman like her was doing with him. It just didn't make sense.

Then, over dessert, when I asked her about her job, she said she used to be a Companion! I couldn't believe it. Assuming this was a surprise to everyone, I immediately told my BIL that he couldn't marry her. Even if they don't have a contract, it's obvious that she just wants him for his money. Everyone knows what Companions are like.

To my shock, my MIL got mad at me and told me and my husband to leave. On the car ride home, my husband said I was narrow-minded and needed to apologize. I think it's ridiculous that I'm just supposed to accept a Companion becoming part of my family when they're basically prostitutes. AITA?

vape-shark: Colo-rectal Surgeon [39] 18 points 4 hours ago  
NTA. Companions didnt have a choice about giving it up back in the old days but the whole program had some reform in the 90s and now there’s regulations and the intimacy clause and that has to be expressidly signed if people want sex and so she wanted it the ho

LiterarySloth411: 390 points 4 hours ago  
YTA. The Companion contract was a legit opportunity up until the end of WW2 when the men came back and pushed women out of the workforce. Then it got skeevy and weird, and now it’s basically legal prostitution, so you’re not entirely wrong about that, but she escaped her exploitation. You are judgy AF. 

harvarry72: Partassipant [1] 4 hours ago  
Companions are sexploited.

TyranosaurusLex: 12 points 1 hour ago  
Your husband should divorce you and then marry you again just so he can divorce your prejudiced ass twice.

* * *

He opted for lunch at the Crashdown to break up the monotony of the day’s work at the Emporium. Some rooms were still waiting for cases or light fixtures to come in, so he’d largely been reduced to busywork and errand-running. When Grant sent him on a coffee run, he decided the next hour would be better spent lingering over chilaquiles, a shake, and a book.

Rosa took his order and had to rush to deliver food to three other tables, but when she came out with his plate and extra jalapenos ten minutes later, she yelled, “Papi! I’m going on break!” and plopped down across the booth from Michael.

“You look rough,” she informed him. “Drink too much at the reunion last night?”

Michael ignored her until he was two bites into his meal. “No, I just had too much fun watching your sister and her friends pretend they missed high school.”

“Ugh, I know.” Rosa stole the cherry from the top of his shake and popped it in her mouth. “High school sucked. Except maybe the parts of it when I was high.”

“They teach you that in AA?” Michael asked, amused.

“I’m not saying it was a good idea. But it made fourth-period Social Studies a lot easier to sit through.”

Michael had done well in high school--well enough to go to college, if he’d wanted to. But he hadn’t cared about anything enough to spend four years of his life on it. All he’d wanted was to keep his head down and stay out of any form of government custody.

So much for that plan, now that he was helping Alex investigate a secret government operation that threatened not only himself, but also his two newly discovered--siblings? Friends? Planet-mates?

“Seriously,” Rosa said, squinting at him, “what is wrong with you?”

When Michael stopped and thought about it, he identified that familiar unsettled feeling in his chest, which he now knew was a sign of Max and Isobel’s presences nearby. But added to that was the concern that he might run into them without warning. Whenever he did meet them again, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away, he at least wanted to go in with a little preparation. Not trip over them at the diner or the gas station.

Michael searched for a way to convey all of that to Rosa without sounding unbalanced. “Family stuff.”

“I thought you didn’t have any family,” Rosa said.

“Turns out I’m related to Max and Isobel. Kind of.”

Rosa jolted in shock and leaned across the table, the antennae on her headband bobbing wildly. “Those two children of the corn? How? You don’t look like them.”

“They’re more like...adopted siblings,” Michael tried.

“How did you find out? Wait, did you know about them? Did you come here looking for them?”

He held up a hand to stop the flow of questions. “None of your business, actually.”

“Jeez, I was only trying to help.” Rosa made an exaggerated face at him and pulled a piece of tortilla off his plate. “I’m kind of an expert in complicated family dynamics.”

“Just cause your mom left?” He knew plenty of people whose parents had taken off and never come back.

“Arturo isn’t my biological father.” Rosa nodded in response to his raised eyebrows. “And I found out at an AA meeting when my mom didn’t know I was there.”

Michael’s eyes flickered over to Arturo, hefting a tray full of food and carrying on a conversation in Spanish with the cook. “No shit? How did he take it?”

Rosa shrugged. “We’ve never talked about it. I think he probably knows. But it doesn’t matter.”

Michael didn’t need her to spell it out for him. Besides, he’d heard plenty of well-meaning lectures from social workers and counselors about how family didn’t have to mean blood. It didn’t help when he was faced with Max and Isobel. He knew they weren’t to blame for his isolation. Objectively, he knew that. For all the good it did.

“What’s Max like?” he asked instead.

“Boring, mostly,” Rosa said. “Reads a lot, writes a lot. I guess he’s got layers somewhere, since Liz keeps coming back to him.”

“Are they dating?”

“Not exactly. They almost got together after high school, but Liz moved across the country. They finally hooked up over Christmas break when she was a senior, and then Liz’s grad school scholarship was in Michigan. So she comes home for vacation and Max makes cow eyes at her and sometimes they have sex. I don’t know if they’re ever really gonna go for it.”

Michael scraped up the last bit of salsa and then sipped the milkshake, letting it cool his burning tongue. “And Isobel?”

“Don’t really know her. She hardly ever comes here.” Rosa reached for the shake but snatched her hand back when Michael swatted it away.

“Rosa!” From across the diner, Arturo caught her eye and tapped his wrist where a watch would be.

“Time’s up,” she said, straightening her antennae and sliding out of the booth. “If you actually want to talk about whatever’s going on instead of trying to pretend you’re cool with it, you know where to find me.”

He did want to talk and he didn’t. What he really wanted was to tell Alex all about it, but as Alex got deeper into his dad’s weird alien project, he came closer to finding out that aliens existed. Michael could handle putting himself in danger. But anything that affected him could affect Max and Isobel, in their placid little lives, and they were far less prepared than he was to deal with any trouble.

He had to talk to them. He knew that. But their abandonment of him, though unintentional, still stung too much.


	14. Chapter 14

“I have access,” Alex said to the empty cabin. Once he knew where to look, he walked right through the network security of Jesse’s secret base outside of town. Data was his for the taking: encrypted, but Alex suspected breaking it would be as easy as penetrating the outdated security. Even better: they could open the door. The real stash would be off the grid. He texted Michael: 

> where r u?

> Michael: bunkhouse what do u need

Michael had brooded for hours every day in the bunkhouse since the reunion, tinkering with electronics and small machines that might be for the Emporium displays or might be busywork to pass the time. Alex banged on Michael’s door instead of replying to his text, three quick raps as he said, “I got news,” and opened the door.

Late morning light washed over the room, cluttered and dark. Michael jerked upright in his chair, his desk littered as always with stray junk. He dropped a bottle of nail polish remover, which was open. The sharp scent cut through the murk, and Michael leapt up, plucking at his wet sleeve. “The hell!” 

“Shit, I didn’t mean to jump you like that.” 

“Try not breaking through my door like a fucking SWAT team, then.” He pulled off his shirt and used it to mop up the acetone. 

“Yeah, I--what are you doing?” 

“Day drinking.” Michael threw his dirty shirt in the corner and rifled through the laundry duffle for another. 

Alex frowned at the sarcasm. Mostly he worried. Whatever it was Michael wanted from the Evans twins, they didn’t give it to him at the high school reunion, and the lack weighed on him. Alex had his own abandonment issues, but he didn’t understand the bond between Michael and the Evans, or how it was broken. Michael didn’t explain and Alex didn’t want to push and the frustration was building. 

“So what’s your news?” Michael pulled a tee-shirt over his head.

“I broke through security at the base outside of town.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

“It means we can get inside,” he said. “Wanna go for a ride?” 

*

Alex knelt at a metal cellar door set in concrete with a hand scanner mounted next to it and set his laptop on the door. Michael moved the truck behind the office trailers while Alex burned through his data plan using the hotspot. He didn’t even have to modify the scanner, just change the approved access and enter his own handprint. He laid his palm on the scanner.

“That’s it?” Michael said.

The light ran across the screen. Alex gave himself clearance, propagated the new input into the system, and when he laid his hand on the scanner again, they heard locks disengage. 

“You’re scary good at that.” 

“This security is outdated,” Alex said dismissively. 

They both entered, Michael leading the way down the open-grate metal steps to a door made to be sealed, but hung wide open. Inside lay the dusty remains of a command center: tables, computer stations, server cabinets, monitors mounted to the wall. They swept the room and connected spaces--closets and storage and the head--and then Alex settled at the main station. 

“This might take a while.”

“I thought you said the security was outdated?” 

“To get into the building, yeah. But even if it’s a few years out of date, logging into the internal network won’t be instant. Not without a password.” 

Michael poked around the space, periodically slipping out to keep watch. Alex noticed each time he returned, bringing in the warmth of the sun on his clothes. “All’s quiet topside,” Michael said. He pulled up a chair and sat next to Alex. “You getting anywhere?” 

“The program is loaded and working. Once it burrows into the server, then we’ll get somewhere.” 

“And here I thought hacking a top secret base would be more exciting,” said Michael. “Though the accessibility is much better than the one under the cabin. Look at those railings.” 

“Yeah, this part is boring.” Alex swiveled on his chair to face him. “But if you’re inspired by the design here, feel free to take notes and do a little reno at home.” 

“Nah, I like what I got,” Michael said, and then leaned close. “I could fix the boredom and initiate a sexual act of comfort at a rate you find satisfying.” 

Alex snickered. “You’re never going to let that go, are you.” 

“Not while it makes you laugh.” 

For one long, sweet moment they grinned at each other. For the next, Alex imagined kissing the smirk off Michael’s face, but it was an indulgent fantasy. He’d never allow the distraction. More satisfying was the lightening of Michael’s mood. He was grateful for it. 

And then the system came online. 

Without a login, he couldn’t use the database to search, but the amount of unsorted data was staggering: files from the ‘40s to present day. Reports, requisitions, forms. Photos, film, drawings. Designs, schematics, prototypes. Every random file Alex opened was a genuine document. He barely noticed the details of the files as he opened them on different monitors, focused instead on the properties of each one: time created, modified, and accessed, until Michael made a noise. 

He was staring at a bright, day-lit photo thick with the haphazard sprawl of bodies on the ground, blood seeped into their white garments. “What is--are they dead? Are those people dead?”

“I think so,” replied Alex, but he knew. The documentation included the date the photo was taken and the date it was digitized. “This was taken the day after the crash.” He rifled through the same folder. There were hundreds of digitized color photos and thousands in black and white. He opened a photo of debris to fill the screen instead, jeweled glass in the desert dirt.

“There’s so much of it,” Michael said, still gaping. 

“I’m not sure how much I can download.” Alex focused on grabbing as much data as he could. He queued it up to copy to his flash drive, then switched over to examine the operational side of things, where he found security cameras. He threw the feed up on all the monitors to cover the photographs of wreckage and bodies.

Michael protested, and then said, “That’s the access road. They’ve seen us come here before.” 

“Maybe, if anyone checks the footage. So far, only my dad has scanned in for months.” 

“What about that guy?” A beefy pickup truck barreled up the road.

“Shit. Shit. Okay,” Alex said, deciding, “I’ll stay here, and you go. Get out to your truck and head towards town.”

“What? No! I’m not leaving you here.” 

“I’ll lock myself in. Chances are it’s just kids going for a joyride around the base. They’ll leave, and I’ll text you to come back.” 

“What if they try to get in?” 

“They can’t.” 

“What if that guy works for your dad?” 

“Then you _really_ can’t be here,” Alex said. 

“What if--” 

“If anyone comes through that door, they’re military and I have plausible deniability. You do not. Go!” 

“Fuck.” Michael glared at him: worry more than anger. Then he stormed out of the bunker. Alex reengaged the locks after him and then cycled through the security feeds until he found the one just outside the bunker. Michael was out of sight. A pickup truck with a row of off-road lights mounted above the cab entered the frame and stopped. 

A man got out of the truck, his back to the camera. Alex registered a uniform and a familiar stance and for a moment he thought _Clay? But of course he’d use all of his sons. At least Greg is out of the Navy._

The details registered. _That’s not Air Force camo_. 

It was Flint. 

Alex watched as he entered the code and pressed his hand against the scanner. He heard the door locks disengage, the creak of its hinges as it opened, and then boots on the walkway. The footsteps slowed, stopped, and then Flint rushed the main room, weapon drawn and aimed at Alex’s head.

“Long time no see,” Alex said. 

“Alex.” The gun lowered. “You’re not supposed to be here.” 

“Are you sure about that? Because it looks like I am.”

“I’m surprised he brought you on board.” Flint holstered his weapon but suspicion kept him focused on Alex. He nodded pointedly at Alex’s leg. “I thought you were still on disability.”

“Like you’re still stationed in Munich?” Alex bluffed, hard, but everything he had learned so far about Jesse’s recent activities screamed covert, unauthorized, and undocumented. “I wondered why you didn’t bother to stop by when I was in Landstuhl.”

“That’s just because you’re an asshole. So why are you here?”

Alex took another gamble, but from the bullshit orders Jesse had presented him with at Walter Reed--and what he’d seen of the security system so far--it wasn’t a long shot. “I’m trying to fortify the digital security.” He shook his head. “It’s not great.”

“And Dad asked _you_?” Flint said. The derision was bone-deep, a practiced cut that landed hard.

Worse things had happened to him. Alex shrugged off the sting. “I got my leg blown off. Dad saw an opportunity. It’s hardly a surprise.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Like he tells me your duty orders, for fuck’s sake.” 

Flint’s expression soured, and then he changed tack. “I didn’t see a car. How’d you get here? You didn’t walk.” 

“I’ve got a driver waiting to pick me up.”

“You mean the Companion,” he sneered.

“He drives me around. That’s literally his job. Cooking. Laundry. He chops firewood, too.” Alex recalled Michael deviling Jesse and smiled. “He’s multi-talented.”

“Like giving _comfort_.” Flint’s lip curled. “I heard about that shit-storm. Why the hell did you do that to Dad?”

“Fuck you.” Fury burned hot and sudden. “I did _nothing_ wrong.”

“Picking a guy was stupid and you know it.”

“Oh my god, get a life and join the twenty-first century! And get the hell out of here. I’m not finished and you don’t have clearance to modify security.”

“You don’t have the authority to--”

“I have the skills to lock your ass out of this facility right now, and _that’s_ why Dad asked me.” Alex raised his hands over the keyboard theatrically. “Get out and let me do my job so I can ask my Companion to come get me out of this dump.”

“Not before I retrieve what I came for.”

“Oh, you’re not doing anything under my login. You can log in and dick around on your own time after I leave.” 

Flint hung between doubt and Alex’s authority, and Alex was sweating. Alex turned his back to Flint as if dismissing him and began closing programs, minimizing the download bar first and opening more of the security camera feeds. There were dozens. One showed a dirt road and a field he recognized because he passed over that road several times a week: it was the road to the cabin. Alex swallowed and kept his hands moving, hoping Flint had as little IT training as he suspected.

The flash drive was full. Alex had others with him, but now was a good time to retreat. He closed everything and logged out, palming the drive into his pocket.

“C’mon,” said Alex. He slid off the chair and headed for the door. When Flint didn’t follow, he glared at him. “Well?”

Flint followed him outside, where Alex scanned his palm to lock the door. “There. All yours,” he said.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” said Flint, thoughtful, as if Alex had passed a test.

“Is this another round of homophobia? Because I can assure you, I _do_ have it in me, as often as I can.” Alex could imagine in exquisite detail shrugging his crutch into his palms, winding back and-- “Or do you want to compare medals? You haven’t caught up to Greg yet, and he’s been out for years.”

“Standing up to Dad.”

“You just weren’t paying attention.” Alex walked off, head down as he texted one-handed to Michael: 

> Take me home.

*

Alex watched Michael’s truck speed along the dirt road, dust billowing high, before shuddering to a stop by the gate. “You okay?” he asked, looking Alex up and down as if he wasn’t standing calmly by the side of the road.

“I’m good.” He climbed into the truck. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

“Who was that? Did you get what you need? What the hell happened?” Michael asked, wired. The tires spun in the gravel before catching, and they flew down the road, back toward town.

“Considering that it was my brother, it could have gone either way.”

“Brother?! Which brother? Not the douchebag that works with your father. Was it the douchebag that works with your father?” God, he felt better simply sitting next to Michael, who kept going. “Didn’t you say he was in Germany? But who else would it be? You said the others weren’t that bad.”

“Yeah, it was Flint.” Alex recounted the details as Michael drove north.

“So what happens now? He’ll tell your dad.”

“Dad wanted me to work for him. Well, now I’m working for him on my terms.” He wormed the flash drive out of his front pocket and held it up. “This is a terabyte. And it’s full.”

Michael side-eyed him as he drove. “A terabyte of what?”

“Proof that aliens exist.” Alex grinned. “Congratulations. It’s taken over six months, but you’ve converted me.”

*

Alex made Michael backtrack into town to grab fast food. They ate in the truck while they dissected what happened in the old command center and the data he found. Away from the bunker, between wolfing his food, Alex could enthuse about the discovery. The scope of the data alone impressed him, and the details he examined from random files suggested depth that went beyond mere fraud. It would take as much effort to fake the alien crash as to document it so completely. At the cabin he continued on through the door, making plans on how best to explore what he had in his pocket, pausing when he used the bathroom.

When he came out, Michael was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “I get it, your enthusiasm is all well and good, but Jesus, what if it hadn’t been your brother?”

The earnestness brought him up short. “What?”

“It’s a secret organization! What’s to stop them from making you disappear?”

“I’m pretty sure kidnapping by secret organizations is outside your purview as a Companion.”

The joke missed its mark. “Alex, I swear to God.” Michael shook his head and retreated to the bathroom.

“What?” Alex said after him. Michael was the UFO enthusiast. Why wasn’t he geeking out to the hard data? What little they saw was staggering, and that was just a taste. There was a terabyte still to explore, let alone what they could find the next time.

He waited until the pipes stopped knocking and caught Michael in the hall as he came out of the bathroom, his face damp around the hairline and smelling of fresh water.

“Hey.” Alex blocked the narrow hall. “I thought you’d be excited. What’s wrong? Seriously, I was fine in there. I told you: I’m Air Force; I have plausible deniability.”

“And you just told me in the truck that you bluffed your way through. He pulled a gun on you!”

It was a sweet point to score off Flint, though Flint’s barbs hit the shame planted deep by Jesse over the years. The thrill faded in the face of Michael’s distress. “It was only a sweep. He wasn’t going to hurt me.” Michael made an unhappy sound. “Michael, no, trust me. I’m good at this.”

“And what do you even mean by _good at this_? You get involved in secret military organizations on a regular basis?”

“Military is military, and military is how I grew up,” he said. “Bluffing is just using authority as a weapon. It’s how you play the system.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like being kept in the dark, and I really didn’t like leaving you there.” Michael tried to shoulder past but Alex blocked him.

“There wasn’t any time to explain in the moment and I know you got that,” said Alex, cupping Michael’s neck, “because you left. You did exactly what I needed.”

“Yeah?” Michael stared past Alex, but he stopped trying to escape. Alex swiped his thumb over the flutter at the base of Michael’s throat.

“You challenge the hell out of me sometimes,” he said, and Michael finally looked him in the eye. “But yeah, you give me exactly what I need.”

“And what about what I need,” Michael whispered. He kissed Alex, soft and shallow, and then soft and deep.

“Just ask,” Alex murmured between kisses. Michael laid his hand on Alex’s neck, completing an embrace. Alex’s body revved up, different from the rush of confrontation in the bunker or the thrill of discovery at what he found.

“I want you--I want...” Michael nuzzled into his neck. “I want you in bed.” He kissed Alex hard and Alex knew it was to stop saying too much, even if Alex wanted to know what he wouldn’t say. He opened up to Michael instead, his mouth full, inhaling deep as they pressed together.

Alex slid his tongue along Michael’s to soften the kiss before chasing the ebb of it into Michael’s mouth, and then broke it to watch Michael’s eyes open, hooded and dark. He took Michael’s hand and led him into the bedroom. They stripped, blatantly eye-fucking each other. Alex yanked back the duvet and fell back onto the bed, naked. Michael heaved a breath, as if bracing himself, and then climbed on top of Alex to kiss him, suck his earlobe, scrape teeth over his neck, making Alex squirm and scratch up Michael’s back.

“Hold still,” Michael said, and bit his neck again. He sat up to paw through the night stand for lube. Alex spread his legs and lifted his hips, pressing his shoulders against the sheets, and tucked his foot behind Michael’s knee to tug him close. The move lightened the mood, and Michael laughed. “Slow down, I’m getting there.” He poured lube in his palm and coated his dick, then took more in his hand before closing the cap and dropping it.

“C’mon,” said Alex, and moaned as Michael’s slick fingers dipped between his cheeks and rubbed at his hole. He tilted his hips, chasing Michael’s touch, and he pressed his head back into the pillow, eyes clenched tight, as one long finger pressed in. “Yeah, yeah, more.” He didn’t want to wait; he wanted to feel it.

“You sure?” Michael asked the question but didn’t wait for the answer before he drew his finger out and went back in with two, working deep.

“Oh my god, you’re so fucking good at that,” Alex panted. His dick jerked with his pulse as precome rolled out onto his belly. Michael bowed low and licked the head of Alex’s cock, licked at the mess on Alex’s abs, and then leaned over to kiss him, fingers still twisting, opening him up. “Okay, oh. _Ohhhhh_.” Alex rocked down on Michael’s fingers, taking them faster. “Fuck me, I want to, I’m ready.”

Michael withdrew his fingers and pushed at Alex’s left thigh. “Open up a little more, baby,” he murmured. He took his slick cock in hand, pressed it against Alex and slowly wedged him open.

The pressure was intense, an ecstatic burn. “Do not stop, I swear to God I’ll--” Alex moaned and lifted his left leg to kick his heel in the small of Michael’s back.

Michael bottomed out, panting in Alex’s ear. Then he began to move, little shoves that lengthened into full thrusts, hitting Alex where the pleasure burst, ringing it hard.

“Nnn, I can’t,” Michael grunted, and threw himself into Alex’s body, unable to slow down until he jerked, buried deep.

“No, shit, don’t stop,” Alex whined, and stroked his dick furiously as Michael kept fucking into him until he gasped, overwhelmed.

*

Alex rolled out of the bed after a dozy half-hour, trying hard not to wake Michael. He pulled on clean sweats and skipped the underwear, skipped the leg, skipped the sock, just threw a rough knot under his right knee so he wouldn’t trip over the empty pant leg. He fished in his jeans pocket for the flash drive and then crutched out as quietly as he could to the kitchen.

He set the drive on the table next to his laptop, then stood in front of the fridge contemplating the contents. The chill was bracing on his naked chest. God, he needed a shower. The sex had been a collision, hard and filthy, and he loved it. But then, sex with Michael had been great from the first awkward handjob at the Emporium. And here they were, two months later, the sex still exceptional. Alex’d had a few relationships, short, secretive affairs that ended with a change of orders or impatience with Alex’s dedication to the closet, and they were useless as comparisons, because how could you compare a few dates against living with a man for months? Alex knew he could deny his inconvenient feelings until hell froze over, but he could also accept the fact that he’d wanted Michael from the very beginning.

Alex gave up on finding what he wanted to eat, took a beer instead, and finally closed the fridge door.

Alex booted the laptop. He would need the desktop to back up all the data and keep it secure; its security was robust enough to repel even government attacks. Probably. But he could use the laptop to take a peek.

He twisted the cap off his beer, took a swig, and started poking at random files. Drudgery, most of it. War had so much paperwork: work orders, requisition forms, inventory lists, duty rosters. But here and there: a photo, a film clip, a personal eyewitness account of an event that apparently had nothing to do with the crash, but that the powers-that-be considered important enough to include. Names, here and there. Names he recognized. Roswell wasn’t a big city, and many families had deep roots.

Michael slouched into the kitchen. “You leave any for me?” He fetched a beer and leaned over Alex’s shoulder, his hand warm on Alex’s neck, to look at the laptop. “What’s that?”

“Part of what we got today. This is just random stuff.”

“Huh. Boring.”

“There’s a lot of _boring_ in places like this. All the documentation and budgeting. But check this out.” Alex clicked on a film clip of three identical potted marigolds on a white table in front of a gray wall. A hand entered the picture, which gave the plants scale; they looked to be about a foot tall. With the palm down and fingers spread, the hand waved over the flower on the far right. It began to sway, and then grow.

“That looks old.”

“It’s 1952.”

“And that’s--that’s real?” he asked, hesitant. He was entirely focused on the screen. 

“They could have used time-lapse photography, but watch.”

The hand reached over the second flower, revealing the arm, flat upper chest, and shadowy jaw of a man. The second flower moved and grew. The man walked behind the table. The camera angle cut off his face above the mouth. He had light skin, wore a drab gray pullover, the sleeves rolled up, and he waved his hand over the third flower to make it grow as well. The film jerked to the next segment: a different man, also white and wearing a dreary gray pullover. The framing of this shot showed more of this man’s nose, but he dipped his head to reveal haunted eyes and a receding hairline. The lights flickered in the video, the man’s hand glowed, and the three flowers withered away to blackened threads all in an instant.

“This is one of a series about plants,” said Alex. “There’s one of a man doing something to a tree, but I can’t tell what, and another is of a woman sprouting seeds in the palm of her hand. There’s a different set that shows people making lights go on or off without touching or just standing there while balls juggle in the air by themselves.”

Michael’s hand slid away. “People? Or aliens?”

“I--” Alex blew out a breath. “All the data I’ve sampled so far describes people who survived the crash of a craft capable of space travel. If that ship came from anywhere other than Earth, then they are by definition aliens. Look.” He opened a document. “This is an analysis on the debris, which includes materials that don’t exist on this planet.”

Michael leaned close again, his eyes skimming quickly back and forth as he read. His jaw was tense. Was he still spooked by the top secret military milieu of the bunker? To Alex, the bunker appeared to be a relic, once important but now abandoned, living on a trickle from a forgotten budget or, more likely, diverted funds. If it was an active base, it would have been staffed, for one thing, or properly mothballed if not. The tech was newer than he expected, given the contents of the data he examined so far, but it hadn’t been updated in the last few years at least. 

Michael stood. “You gonna keep looking at this stuff all day? I gotta get to the laundromat before it closes at five. Those sheets are ready to walk over by themselves.”

“And the other ones, oh. Right.” Alex allowed a satisfied little smile thinking about all the sex they’d had last week. And an hour ago. He did have to secure the flash drive, but most of the information was decades old. He could wait to examine the data. “We could go together and get pizza.”

“Go shower and I’ll strip the bed.”

 _Laundry_ , thought Alex as he sat in the shower and washed away the funk. _A pizza date, a couple of beers, and laundry_. He still had no clue what he and Michael were doing, but he liked it. 

*

Alex awoke between breaths: muddy dream awareness on one side, seated into his body on the other. It was full dark. He tried to gauge the time of night by how tired he felt. Not exhausted, as if he woke half an hour after falling asleep, but not fully rested either, as if he woke just before dawn. Lying on his stomach, he reached for his phone on the nightstand to check the time, and the mattress shifted.

_Oh._

Sharing a bed with Michael was still a novelty. Michael slept beside him, his breaths nearly silent, naked because fucking Alex that afternoon wasn’t enough; after late pizza and a couple beers he laid Alex out on clean sheets and sucked him off, slow.

The phone read 2:48 AM. He set it down, night-blinded, and flipped his pillow to the cool side, and then turned to face Michael. He stroked his fingertips along Michael’s arm, across his collarbones, and down his ribs. He nosed into Michael’s neck. God, he smelled so good, all the time.

Michael hummed from deep in his throat. Alex cupped his soft, warm dick and Michael hummed again, a little two-tone agreement, so Alex shifted and licked at his nipple. In his hand, Michael thickened, a slow rise as the moments ran away and Alex sucked at the nipple, used his teeth gently. Michael’s hand cupped the back of Alex’s head. “Again?” Alex heard the smile and slid up to taste it, languidly stroking Michael’s cock as it firmed. _Yes, again_ , thought Alex, and shuddered at the sudden lust for it, for sex, for sex with Michael.

“Hmm, go for it,” Michael said, slurred by Alex’s tongue dipping into his mouth, and Alex did. He licked his palm and worked Michael until he rolled his hips, thrusting into Alex’s grip. Michael turned so they faced each other and spit into his own hand to pull at Alex’s cock. “Ohh, you get so wet,” he whispered between kisses. “I fucking love it.” He let go to hike Alex’s leg over his hip, running his hand along the back of Alex’s thigh to the bend of his knee, pulling him closer, and once he had them stable, he reversed the caress to run his broad, hot palm up Alex’s thigh to cup one cheek and dip his fingers to rub against his hole.

“Do it,” said Alex, leaning into the move. “Put them in.” He wormed his other hand between them to fumble their cocks together and stroke. Michael caught Alex’s mouth up as he pushed two fingers into him and Alex moaned against Michael’s lips, unable to kiss.

They moved, uncoordinated and heated, and in the silence of the night they were surrounded by every rustle of the sheets and filthy wet thrust of their cocks into Alex’s hands, and Michael’s fingers into Alex’s hole, and the breath panting between their slick mouths until the sudden pulsing rush at the end wrung a mounting cry from Alex. Michael urged him on, barely heard, and then, “Oh, oh, fuck, _Alex_.”

Alex’s throat clicked as he swallowed, mouth dry.

“Jeeesus,” Michael slurred.

“Hm,” Alex agreed. He heaved himself up on one shaky arm to reach the half-full glass of water on the nightstand and managed to get it to his mouth without spilling. He offered the last few swallows to Michael before he put the empty glass back.

“C’mere.” Michael settled Alex in his arms. Nearly asleep, Alex let Michael hold him and nuzzle into his hair. Michael whispered, “That was wild, baby.”

Alex agreed, but he fell asleep before he could say.

*

Alex woke to the smell of bacon. He was alone in his rumpled sheets that smelled like sex. He stretched against the pillow, content and a little hungover from lack of sleep. In the kitchen Michael handed him a cup of coffee and kissed him on the cheek. _This feels like a love affair_ , he thought. Or maybe what a love affair was supposed to be. Alex had been occasionally infatuated, but he’d never been in love before and he was sure of it because--

“How do you want your eggs?” asked Michael. 

“Whatever you make is fine.” He sat and began fiddling with the flash drive again because it was easier to think about the fact that aliens existed than how Michael cooked eggs in the dusty late-morning sunlight.

The innocuous films of mutated plants and random objects floating in the air from yesterday afternoon now gave way to gruesome photos of the crash site. Michael pulled a chair around to watch as they ate. The ease of the morning turned into a shared disquiet as they flicked through photos of charred bodies wearing combat boots. People wearing white, bloodied by gunshot wounds. Black and white footage of an autopsy. Michael made the smallest of noises. Alex paused to brush his arm, unhappy how distress rolled off him.

Alex quickly clicked away from the video and opened a random text file to cover the images, anything to soften the horror. A bright, white document popped up. The heading was bold and clear:

_Evans, Isobel_

_Evans, Max_

Before Alex could react to the names on his monitor, Michael’s coffee mug smashed on the floor.

“Why the _fuck_ does your dad have files on Max and Isobel?” Michael had shoved his chair back and knocked his cup off the table.

Alex blazed through the document, skimming for keywords, headings, bullet points. He found full demographic data: birth certificates, immunization records, social security numbers, state IDs, passport numbers, known addresses, places of employment.

“Why would he have this?”

He found several blocks of text describing the night of their discovery: the truck driver who found them, Rick Guerin; the responding officers, including Michelle Valenti; the notes from the EMT team who signed them off as “remarkably healthy;” the intake papers at the crisis home.

“Did your dad do this? Or was it Project Shepherd?”

He found incident reports: four fire alarms pulled at Roswell HS by the captain of the basketball team, who was reported to have said that Isobel talked him into it and then avoided her the rest of the year; five incidences of power failure at the high school accompanied by sparking light fixtures in the same classrooms inhabited by Max Evans. Photos of fractal burn marks. A drawing of a three-pronged symbol from a tattoo artist that corresponded to writing on debris found at the site of the ‘47 crash.

“Alex! Why do you have files on Max and Isobel?”

Alex tore his attention from the screen. Michael was standing, now, his face set and flushed, shirtless because they both had rolled out of bed late and dawdled over breakfast that was closer to lunch before Alex set up the desktop and began analyzing the material on the flash drive.

“I don’t. They’re…” He glanced back at the screen. “They’re being watched. By Project Shepherd. There are reports going back to 2014.”

“By a secret military operation.” Michael shook his head. “No. No, no, no. This is not-- Alex. They are the only family I have. Nothing can happen to them.”

“You were found together. The three of you. Michael,” Alex said, catalytic fear raising every hair on his body, “how are they related to you?”

“I--They were, we were...found.”

“Before that. What about your parents? You said they died. How did they die?”

“I don’t…”

Alex pointed at the screen. “This says that Max and Isobel Evans are _aliens_. Michael, you…”

“ _I don’t know!_ ” 

Michael had put his back to the kitchen counter. Alex stood to feel more in control because his universe had been picked up and shaken hard. Michael. An alien. No, worse: an alien that _Jesse Manes_ of all people had made his personal mission to hunt down and-- And do what?

And what did Michael want? They had been in each other’s space for over six months! Wounded, he wondered, _Have I been played?_

“How did you know to come here?” he asked. “Did you target me? Because if you were looking for access to Project Shepherd, you hit the jackpot when you found me. That would be one hell of a coincidence.”

“It isn’t a coincidence! I asked the Program to send me to Roswell because I wanted to find some answers, but you-- _you_ chose _me_. The day we met, you said you chose me, so why? Alex? Tell me why you chose _me_? Explain _that_ coincidence, because _your dad_ hunts down aliens and boom! You pick an alien for your Companion!”

“I didn’t know anything about you. Your profile was on the first page. I just liked your photo, I thought--” _I thought you were hot, that you had attitude_ “--I thought you’d be good for...that you’d help me. I had no idea that you were a--” Anger revived his momentum. “And I still don’t! What is the actual proof? You...I’ve lived with you, for months. We have sex! And you’re--normal! You’re not different or strange or--” 

“Alien? I bluff my way through a lot,” he said, “and for the record, bluffing isn’t about using authority. It’s about bullshitting your way out of trouble, which doesn’t always work.”

“So are you bullshitting now?”

Michael glowered at him and raised his arm, palm down and fingers spread toward the living room. A leaden moment of anticipation changed the air in the room, like the silence before thunder.

The table rammed into the coffee table, legs screeching across the floor and chairs thrown wild, the CPU tower slammed onto its side, the monitor and dishes flung over the coffee table and onto the hearth while small items all through the cabin rattled.

Alex had no time to react; the movement was nearly instantaneous. He flung his arm up, too late if there had been real danger, and gaped at Michael.

“There’s your bullshit.” Michael lowered his arm, his jaw visibly clenching and eyes hard. “Is that what you wanted?”

Alex’s mind spun through possibilities of what he just witnessed. Milk dripped from the table. Michael stared at him, tense, and Alex _knew_ him, damn it. That wasn’t malice or anger, or not anger at Alex but anger at himself: anger to cover fear, and Alex knew that, too.

Everything had changed and nothing had changed.

His brain felt overclocked, but logic began to trickle through. The work it would take to scam the Program to match Michael with Alex was highly improbable at best, and Michael was right: Alex chose him. From pages of options, Alex had chosen Michael based on a photo. He slumped back against the counter. Michael stepped close as if to support him, a habit Alex recognized instantly from their early days together, and yet Alex threw out his hand: _Stop!_

Michael flinched. His shoulders came up defensively and he turned away.

“No, wait,” said Alex, pushing away from the counter to reach out. “Michael. Wait.” 

“Wait for what? For the military to come take me and my family away?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“And why is that, huh?” Michael’s derision was thick. “Because you like how I perform my Companion services? Or because protecting me is a big fuck-you to your dad?”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt!” Gruesome images still lurked behind the open files that declared the Evans twins were aliens.

“Too late for that,” said Michael. “Project Shepherd exists, and your father will lock me and my family up as soon as he can get away with it.”

“I won’t let him get the chance.”

“You keep saying that but you didn’t even know he was involved with Project Shepherd until a couple months ago and now he has files on Max and Isobel--in the same batch of files as video footage of _an autopsy_. Getting locked up is probably the best-case scenario we can expect!” The stifling pressure of an impending storm filled the cabin again. Alex fell back a step, anticipating another explosion, but the tremor of small things was a murmur that faded, taking Michael’s fury with it. “I can’t wait around while you figure out what you want to do.”

Panic gripped him. “You can’t just leave.”

“Are you gonna stop me? You do know you could order me to stay, right? I finally read the fine print on that contract. You can call a Program rep if I don’t fulfill the terms of the contract. You can even call the cops.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Alex said. “Jesus, Michael, you know me better than that.”

“Yeah, but do you know me? Do you know what I am? What I’m capable of?” Michael’s thoughts were always loud on his face. Alex read the reluctant trust, and also the looming fear, and he knew what he saw was accurate because he _knew_ Michael. A thousand little moments spiralled through him, from now back to the first time they met. He wanted them all, but Michael had cut him off at the knees: _Do you know what I am?_

 _I know who you are,_ thought Alex. _I know I want you to stay. I know the contract has an end. I know I don’t want an end._

Michael stared expectantly at Alex, waiting for him to respond, but Alex couldn’t bear to say a word aloud, and Michael left.


	15. Chapter 15

Panic thundered through Michael like a drumbeat. _Run, get away, don’t look back._ He had no destination, no plan, just the crawling need to put space between himself and the Project Shepherd evidence. Looking at it was bad enough--autopsy reports, crash photos, lists of artifacts. Those videos where aliens, clearly under duress, displayed their powers.

He’d deluded himself that he could stay close to Alex during the investigation, and maybe he’d find the perfect time to confess that his interest in aliens was far more personal than he’d let on. But despite the time and effort he and Alex had spent chasing Jesse around town and breaking into Project Shepherd, he hadn’t been prepared to find proof of his own origin, and certainly not Max and Isobel’s.

He didn’t blame Alex for his reaction; how could he? Michael had done nothing but lie to him about his most basic self. But he wished Alex had trusted him, after everything they’d been through.

As he got further from the cabin and the blind panic receded a bit, he realized he needed to do...something. Fight back in some way. The opportunity to run away had passed. He couldn’t just wait for Jesse Manes to discover him or move on Max and Isobel. He pulled to the side of the road and opened the text message Alex had forwarded to him, then started a new group conversation.

> Need to see u ASAP when/where can u meet? Somewhere private.

*

This was not how Michael had planned to approach Max and Isobel, and he wished he had more time and space to figure out exactly how to do it. Unfortunately, Project Shepherd--and Alex-- had forced his hand.

Max’s house was a little ways out of town, which meant he and Isobel saw Michael coming. When he pulled up in a plume of dust by the door, they stood closely together outside, waiting for him. Isobel practically vibrated with eagerness to touch or hug him, but as Michael approached, Max gestured in the direction of the outdoor seating area.

“Hi. Uh, thanks for coming. Do you want something to drink?” Max said. “A beer? Coffee?” 

Michael shook his head as he settled into a wooden chair that creaked under his weight. 

“He’s not here for refreshments, Max,” Isobel said, her tone acidic enough to etch glass.

“Yeah,” Michael said, not looking forward to explaining why he was there. “About that.”

“I’m sorry if we rushed you at the reunion,” Isobel said. “With the mind-sharing. I know it was a lot. It’s hard for us to remember that you’ve never experienced that before.”

“Michael, I am so sorry.” Max could hardly meet his eyes until he visibly forced himself to look up, and then he stared at Michael almost without blinking. Michael found it a little unsettling. “We should have kept looking. I should have done more.” 

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Michael said.

“No,” Max insisted. “It does matter. It matters so much. We missed you the whole time.”

Frustration welled up in Michael and overflowed. “Max, shut up! You can beg for my forgiveness later, but right now, we need to talk.”

“About what?” Isobel asked. 

Right. He had to start somewhere. “You know I’m Alex Manes’ Companion.”

Max and Isobel exchanged a look that Michael had seen before. People usually reacted to him in one of two ways. Either they leered at him, as if they assumed he was sexually available to anyone who asked, or they frowned and looked earnestly concerned. Max and Isobel went for option two.

“Do you need money?” Max asked. “Whatever it is, I can get you out of your contract--”

“Hey!” Michael snapped, shame and anger welling up in him. “I didn’t ask you for that. I didn’t come here so you could feel better about having abandoned me for twenty years!”

Isobel reached out to him. “Michael--”

The last thing he wanted was her inside his head at this particular moment. “Both of you, just shut up and _let me talk_. Alex knows about us.”

“That we’re related?”

“That we’re aliens,” Michael said.

Max went quiet and still. Isobel got loud. “He _what_?”

“It gets worse. The military has this thing called Project Shepherd that they set up after the crash to study aliens. Jesse Manes is in charge of it. They have pieces of the ship. They autopsied the people who died. Who knows what they’re doing with the technology they could harvest from the crash?” The few images he’d seen would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“No,” Isobel said, shaking her head so violently that her jewelry rattled. “No, no, no...”

“Jesse Manes? But I--our parents know him. I interviewed him about Alex.” Max looked sick to his stomach, and wasn’t that just great. Michael had been doing fine on his own, staying out of trouble. Even when he came to Roswell, he had plans to keep himself safe, escape routes out of town, strategies for disappearing at a moment’s notice. Whatever risk there was, he would take it and its consequences.

Instead, he’d dragged two innocent people into a shitstorm. Three, if you counted Alex.

“I don’t understand,” Isobel said, hands pale where they clenched tight around the arms of her chair. “If they know about us, why haven’t they come after us?”

Michael had wondered the same thing and tried to reason through his panic on the drive to Max’s. “I don’t think Jesse knows about me. And you two--it wouldn’t make a difference if he came after me, but you and Max are rich, and you’ve got rich parents who would raise hell if you disappeared. He’s been watching you, though.”

“God,” Isobel said. “I always got a weird vibe from him, but I thought he was just a creep.”

“I spent my whole life worried about this.” Max’s voice sounded strangled, like he could barely talk through the tension in his throat. “Any time we used our powers, even accidentally. I told you we had to be more careful, Isobel.”

“Excuse me for not thinking that one of the town’s most respected men was stalking us!”

“How did you find out?” Max asked Michael. “Did he come after you?”

“No. He came after Alex.”

He did his best to summarize everything that had happened over the past six months. Meeting Grant Green and seeing the alien shard. Becoming Alex’s Companion. Jesse’s weird campaign to recruit Alex for some unspecified project. Alex’s decision to investigate what Jesse was doing. Alex’s discovery of the Project Shepherd bunker and the files that contained Michael’s secret.

“Jesse doesn’t know about the three of us, but Alex does. That we were found together. It wasn’t hard for him to connect the dots.”

“You told Alex about that?” Isobel said.

“Yeah,” Michael said defensively. “When I found out that two people I thought were dead were alive and living across town, I told him.”

Isobel turned to Max. “They could be coming for us right now.”

“I don’t think they are,” Michael said. “That’s the good news. They’re still watching and gathering information. Jesse also doesn’t know that Alex has been trailing him and hacking into his files.”

“But Alex will tell him,” she insisted, fear coloring her voice.

“He won’t,” Michael said. “He was surprised, and he’s still dealing with it. But he’s not gonna turn us over to be tortured and dissected.”

“How can you be sure?” Max asked.

“I trust him,” Michael said, and left it at that. He’d lied to Alex, and he’d walked away from him, and Alex had accused him of taking advantage of his injury. But no matter how shocked or betrayed Alex was, there was no world in which he would turn Michael over to Jesse Manes, alien hunter and bigot. He was betting his life on it.

Max and Isobel looked at each other for long moments, and Michael wondered if they were actually speaking telepathically, or if they just knew each other well enough to communicate without words. He had so much to learn about what they could do, and it felt like a countdown clock had started. He needed more time.

“Is he--you’re his Companion. Are you--” As far as Michael could tell, Max was trying to ask if Alex was abusing him, fucking him, or controlling him.

“I trust him,” Michael repeated firmly. The details of his relationship with Alex were none of their fucking business.

Isobel pushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear over and over in a nervous motion. “What are we going to do? Should we run? Each of us go in a different direction, pick a time and place to rendezvous?”

“No,” Max said. “We just got Michael back. We are not splitting up again.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?” Michael snapped. “I’m not your fucking charity case! I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen, and I was fine without you.”

“You weren’t,” Isobel said, like she saw straight through to his heart. “I know you weren’t, because we weren’t. Even when we tried to forget about it. It was always supposed to be the three of us, together.”

When he’d found Max and Isobel, he’d felt like a puzzle piece that had snapped into place, completing the image. But belonging was just the flip side of trapped, burdens and obligations and expectations weighing on him and holding him down.

“We can’t run,” Max said. “That would only postpone the problem. We need to figure out a way to fight back. Or at the very least, call a truce. Maybe if we let them examine us--”

Isobel shuddered. “I am not submitting myself to medical experimentation so that the military won’t kill me! Those can’t be the only two choices.”

The autopsy photos were in black and white. Decades ago. Michael had no interest in supplying Project Shepherd with more current data. “Alex will help.”

“Are you sure?” Max asked. “Actually helping is different from staying out of it.”

“He’s got as much reason to hate his dad as we do. Jesse Manes is a homophobic, abusive asshole, and he’s in charge of Project Shepherd.”

“Thank you for coming to warn us,” Max said. “You didn’t owe it to us, after everything.”

“Is he always this much of a martyr?” Michael asked Isobel.

Isobel narrowed her eyes and glared at Max. “Yep.”

“Can we just--stop talking about it?” Michael continued. “If we make it out of this situation, we can sit in a circle and talk about our feelings. Until then, no more apologies.”

Max smiled at that, the first time Michael had actually seen that expression on his face. “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

*

Michael accepted a beer after that. The day had been a whirlwind, not giving him a moment to stop and think about what he wanted. The first priority was everyone’s safety. And if he had to sacrifice what he had with Alex to achieve that, he was prepared to do it.

It was one thing to be sure that Alex wouldn’t endanger his life. But that was a long way from being sure that their relationship, whatever it was, would continue. Alex could release Michael from the contract and sever all contact with him. He could insist that they stop having sex. He could interrogate Michael and gather information to use in his fight against Jesse.

They needed more time, time spent together, truly getting to know each other now that everything was on the table. They could get back what they’d had, he thought, but only if Alex gave him the chance.

Isobel gave up pacing and dropped onto the couch. “Do either of you have any idea how to stop Jesse Manes from destroying our lives?”

Max got up from his desk and came to sit next to Isobel. “Isobel, what about the fundraiser?”

“Oh, my god. That’s in two days.”

“The thing at the drive-in?” Michael and Alex had tossed around the idea of attending and watching the movie from Michael’s truck. Alex, knowing that his father would be there, had been torn: staying out of Jesse’s sight versus staring him down.

“Jesse is giving a speech,” Isobel said. “Thanks for your donation, support our men and women in uniform, et cetera.”

“You organized this?” Michael asked Isobel.

“I didn’t know at the time that he wanted to capture us and put us under a microscope!”

“Are you sure it’s safe? Maybe you should cancel.”

“I have to introduce him, coordinate the concessions and the volunteers--I can’t ghost my own event,” Isobel said. “It would be suspicious, and we have to keep acting normal.”

“I don’t think you should go alone,” Max said.

“I’m not going to be alone. There will be hundreds of people there.”

Max set his jaw. “You should still have someone watching your back. I’m coming with you.”

“You weren’t going to come anyway to support your sister?”

“What about you?” Max said to Michael, ignoring Isobel’s jab.

Michael shrugged away the pang of uncertainty the question raised. “Don’t know. Alex and I talked about going, but that was before…”

“Before,” echoed Isobel.

Alex might not even want to see him for a few days. Michael supposed he could at least sleep in the bunkhouse and spend the rest of his time elsewhere. Maybe Max or Isobel would let him use the shower at one of their houses. Or he could sleep in the truck if necessary. He’d done it before, and the nights were warm.

Michael knew he didn’t always say the right thing or make the right choice, but he and Alex always connected through touch, even when it was just Michael steadying Alex with a hand on his elbow or correcting his form during physical therapy. If he reached out to Alex again, and Alex flinched away from him, he didn’t know how he’d get past that.

*

After Isobel left, Michael and Max sat in relative peace and quiet, letting the afternoon sun wash over them as they drank their second beers. Max’s earnest sincerity wore on Michael’s nerves, but he was beginning to appreciate his steadiness. It made a nice contrast to Isobel’s flash.

“Are you going back to Alex’s house? Where are you even living?”

“A hunting cabin that belonged to the old sheriff,” Michael said.

“Jim Valenti?”

“Yeah. He left it to Alex.”

“And Alex would rather live there than with his father.”

“Can you blame him?” said Michael.

Max took it as the rhetorical question it was. “Are things okay between the two of you?” He held his hands up to forestall Michael’s reaction. “I’m not trying to pry or control anything. I just want to make sure you don’t have a problem.”

“He was a little surprised,” Michael admitted, underselling it. He dug at the bottle’s label with his thumbnail. “I--things weren’t really settled when I left.”

“Do you need to stay here tonight?” Max asked after waiting a second for Michael to continue, which he had no intention of doing.

“I was gonna get a motel room,” Michael lied. His expenses went on his Company-supplied credit card, and he didn’t want them wondering why he wasn’t with his Patron.

“No, don’t do that,” Max said, shaking his head. “Stay here. You don’t have to spend the whole evening with me--you can hide out in the guest room, or I’ll give you a key and you can come back anytime.”

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

“You’re never going to let us do anything for you, are you?” Max sounded resigned, and Michael felt a pang of guilt.

“I’m just, you know. Okay on my own.” Happier on his own. More comfortable, at least.

“You don’t have to be, though,” Max said, his eyes focused on the beginnings of the sunset. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Hope flared inside Michael, and he hated himself for that tiny, unquenchable spark. He’d thought he might be building something with Alex until the rug was pulled out from under his feet. He didn’t need Max and Isobel to come along with their arms wide open, dangling the promise of a family.

“I totally forgot,” Max said with a half-smile. “Tomorrow’s our birthday.”

“What?” Michael said blankly.

“The day we were found. Iz and I kind of stopped celebrating it when we were adults. It never felt right without you.” Max turned those damn puppy-dog eyes on him, sincerity oozing out of every pore, and Michael snapped.

Fine, goddamnit. Fine. He’d stay the night with Max, and he’d finally get to spend a birthday with his family. And it would end, and it would suck when it ended, and he should know better than to let it get to him, because he’d learned that lesson so many times that it was etched on his skin in pain and broken promises. But no matter how he tried, he could never stop feeling, stop hoping, so living through the pain was the best he could do.

*

“I have an idea,” Isobel said the next day over the fancy cupcakes she’d brought from a bakery in town. “About Jesse Manes.”

Michael had never eaten anything flavored with lavender or guava before. No one had ever thrown him a birthday party, unless you counted the times in school when they’d had one party for everyone born that month. He’d never cared about the date, assuming that it was chosen at random.

Now, he knew, no matter where he spent his birthdays, June 14th would always remind him of ridiculous gourmet cupcakes and sitting around Max’s firepit.

“Okay,” Max said, in the voice of a man who’d listened to many of Isobel’s ideas and regretted most of them.

“All I need to do is get a minute alone with him--not hard for the event organizer--and dig into his nasty little mind.”

“Iz, no--”

“Are you serious?” Michael asked incredulously. “Did I not explain how he wants to _capture_ and _experiment_ on us?”

“He won’t have any memory of it happening. No one I’ve done it to has ever remembered. Not even when I made Kate Long come to school dressed in bell-bottomed overalls and a fringed vest.” The cheerfully reminiscent expression on her face made Michael a little afraid of her. “Even if I can’t get any answers out of him, there’s no risk.”

“It seems risky to me,” Max argued. “I thought we decided you shouldn’t be alone with him.”

“What is he going to do?” Isobel asked. “He can’t make me disappear in the middle of an event with hundreds of people. It’s way too public.”

Michael looked to Max for his lead. “I don’t like it.”

“Me either,” Max said.

“Do we have any other ideas right now? Anything?” Isobel spread her hands and waited for someone else to make a suggestion, and Michael had nothing. He remembered what it felt like to have her inside his head, but it must work differently with humans. If he asked any questions, Max and Isobel might want to see his memories again, and he was not ready for that.

Not sure if he’d ever be ready.

“Look at it this way,” Isobel said brightly. “I’m going to do it, so you two just have to decide if you’re coming to back me up.”

“Is she always like this?” Michael asked Max after a few seconds of resigned silence. “She’s like a runaway train.”

“That’s Isobel,” Max said. “Just try not to get in her way.”

Michael tried to imagine growing up with Max and Isobel. Going to school with them, celebrating birthdays, sharing private jokes. Asking each other about their powers. Michael had struggled to control his telekinesis for several years, especially when he was angry or upset. He’d finally learned, but not before he was forced to pretend that he’d smashed or broken things to cover for a flareup of his powers.

“How old were you when you knew you could do things? Alien things?”

“It started when we were...eleven? Twelve?” Max looked to Isobel for confirmation, and she nodded. “My problem was that things happened--power outages, sparks, transformers blowing--but I didn’t know how to control them.”

“I thought you said you could heal people.”

“That came a few years later.”

“We were fifteen,” Isobel contributed. “That time Mom and Dad sent us to camp in Santa Fe.”

“Right. We were on a hike, and I went off to…” He trailed off, and Michael couldn’t tell if he was blushing or if it was the heat of the fire.

“You went off to make out with Kimberly Teague, because you were trying to convince yourself that you weren’t head-over-heels for Liz.”

Max made a grab for Isobel, but she scooted her chair away and laughed at him. “Anyway, Kimberly slipped and gashed her leg open in a couple of places. She freaked out because of all the blood, and I tried to hold her leg still so I could look at it. Next thing I knew, the biggest cut was gone and I was puking.”

“How’d you cover it up?”

“Told her that all the blood had come from the other cut. The counselors had shown up by that point, so they took over, and I rejoined the rest of the group.”

“I had it a lot easier,” Isobel said. “I was arguing with Mom one day, and then I was inside her head. I told her to let me go shopping like I wanted to, and she did.”

“Yeah, that’s not scary at all.” For a minute, Michael hated them, with their sibling bond and their funny stories. While they’d been shopping and going on hikes, he’d been kicked out of foster homes for breaking windows and punching through walls. It should have been like this from the beginning, the three of them together. And the separation wasn’t their fault, but that left him without anyone to blame.

Now, though. They were making a place for him. They wanted him. Even as they told their stories, their eyes kept returning to him, waiting to see how he’d react. Trying not to step on any of the landmines buried inside him. And he wanted that place between them, two people who would unconditionally support him and love him. Who wanted to hear about him. Who would never let him push them away.

“I figured out about acetone when I was twelve,” Michael offered. “One of the other kids in the house was taking off her nail polish, and it smelled so good.”

“Did you lick her fingers? That’s what Max did to me.”

“Isobel!” Max protested, over the sound of Michael’s laughter.

Michael let the warmth spread through him, for the moment covering his anxious concerns about Alex and Project Shepherd. It felt safe to ask one of the questions he’d always had.

“Do you remember--did we come from pods?” It sounded so stupid as he heard himself say it that he winced. But Max shared a smile with Isobel, and she passed it to Michael, the joy on her face as bright as the sunshine. “Seriously? Pods?”

“We found them years ago, hidden deep in one of the old turquoise mines,” Max said, nodding.

“And they’re still there? Still intact?”

“Do you want to see?” Max rushed over the words with eagerness. “There’s still time before sunset.”

*

Max moved the sheet of wood blocking the cave entrance and set it aside. For a fanciful moment, Michael envisioned himself walking into Aladdin’s cave, filled with jewels and golden treasure. But the entrance was barely wide enough for Max to fit through, and the space beyond was dim and dusty.

Max led the way with a flashlight, and Isobel followed behind Michael. They proceeded through a short tunnel, and then the flashlight’s glare diffused, no longer reflecting off the walls of a close passage. Michael still wasn’t prepared when he turned a corner into a huge cave filled with the light emanating from three glowing pods.

The cave was silent and echoing, like a church, and Michael was filled with reverence. Those gorgeous and unearthly ovoids had sheltered them for fifty years, kept them warm and cradled, hidden safely away until it was time to let them go.

Like the alien shards, the pods _belonged_ to him in some elemental way. He’d spent his life slightly out of sync with the world around him, comfortable but unaware of what he was missing. But being in the presence of these alien things settled and calmed him.

“Can I--”

“Of course,” Max said.

Michael made his way down the short incline to the pods, letting the momentum carry him until he pulled up in front of them with a spray of dirt. He touched the surface of the central pod, a brief brush that made the colors flare. Under pressure, it gave slightly and rebounded. Whatever organic material the pods were made of, Michael had never seen or read about anything like it. Was that fluid inside or gas? What components kept the occupant asleep and untouched by time? He itched to study it, get a sample of the material and the internal substance. That scientific impulse warred with the urge to just observe and wonder.

“Is this where they’ve been the whole time?” he asked, turning only slightly towards Max and Isobel, trying to hide the effect the pods had on him.

“We found them when we were sixteen, as soon as we could drive out here without anyone else,” Max replied.

“We had to search a little, but we could feel them. Can you feel them?” Isobel stretched out her hand, though she wasn’t close enough to touch. Under Michael’s fingers, the pod brightened as if it could sense her intention. The colors swirled riotously and resolved into a memory. He was standing in this cave, holding Max and Isobel’s hands, all three of them small and silent. Communicating without speech, feeling their existence as a part of his, separate but connected.

Then he remembered--but he flinched away from the memory. He’d already relived it with Max and Isobel at the reunion. That connection severed by distance and time. The pain of isolation.

Without letting himself think about it, without turning around, he reached out to Isobel and felt her take his hand, and then she and Max were in his mind. He let them experience his life. The series of foster homes ranging from adequate to abusive. The shallow relationships that were all he let himself have. And the slow rebirth taking place inside him, having Max and Isobel again.

He’d tried to forget, because remembering hurt too much. There was no way he could ever leave them again.

The mindspace faded. He sniffled and swiped at his eyes. Behind him, Isobel wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tightly, while Max laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Max whispered, tipping his head sideways to briefly rest against Michael’s.

Michael cleared his throat, and Max and Isobel took the hint and let go, Max squeezing Michael’s shoulder before dropping his hand. “These artifacts at the UFO Emporium,” Michael said, desperate to change the subject. “Pieces of some alien glass. The colors are the same as the pods.”

“You’re saying they’re genuine?” Max asked.

“I can feel them, just like the pods. Grant Green had one with him when I met him in Amarillo. That’s why I came to Roswell.”

“What are they?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know. Part of the ship, maybe? Come to the Emporium some time. I’ll show you around, and you can see them.”

Isobel smiled at him, her eyes still shining through tears. “We’d like that, Michael.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Roswell, July 17, 2004**

Jesse Manes entered the cavern. A sluggish, yolk-yellow light illuminated the space, emanating from an oval-shaped, glowing pod. He could just make out the outline of a humanoid figure curled inside. 

“Has the area been swept?”

“Yessir. I just thought you’d appreciate the effect.” Lieutenant Corey Warren clicked on his flashlight. 

The cave was dry, crumbling, innocuous. Boring, except for what it held. 

“The man who found it. What do you have on him?” 

“David Hansen, 67, no current address. We pinged his fingerprints in the systems of New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona. Misdemeanor charges, mostly, but also assault and sexual assault. He served time, broke parole. No family.” Warren shrugged. “He’s an alcoholic drifter.” 

“Bring him here.” 

Two soldiers brought in an old man wearing ragged clothes and reeking of alcohol. Jesse walked up to him, ignoring the stench, and examined him. His eyes were tinged yellow, his nose and cheeks scratched with burst capillaries. He mumbled and complained, still drunk but losing his buzz fast. He would be suffering soon, if he didn’t get a drink.

“Other than the waitress at the truck stop,” asked Jesse, “who else did you talk to?” 

“I ain’t talking to you.” Hansen hawked, spit, then mumbled some more.

Jesse looked to Warren, who hurriedly checked his notebook. “The waitress said she saw him walk out of the desert. No car. She said he rambled on about finding aliens in a cave, which she dismissed as crazy drunk talk, but when he tried to lay hands on her, she called the cops.” 

“It’s a good thing we caught the call, then.” Jesse eyed the man again, assessing. Then he drew his weapon and shot him in the face. 

“Jesus _fuck_!” Warren jumped. The others did not.

Jesse aimed a look at him. “You never saw combat, did you.” 

“No sir.” 

“You have now.” Jesse turned to the orb as if addressing it. “Don’t forget this is a war. Clean that up. And then get transport ready. This one is coming to the base with me.”

* * *

The drive-in had a good-sized crowd, cars lined up and kids running around shrieking happily. With all of the American flags and tri-colored bunting, it was a little rah-rah for Michael’s liking, but he could see the appeal.

When he pulled in, he spotted Isobel by the stage arguing with someone--at least, he thought it was an argument. It was hard to tell with Isobel sometimes. Max planned to show up a little later so he and Michael didn’t arrive at the same time. Jesse might be watching Michael, because of his connection to Alex, and the Evans twins, because he knew they were aliens.

Michael killed some time in his truck, waiting for Max and watching more people arrive, wondering if Alex would be among them. Alex had texted him once, around midnight that first day.

> Just wanted to make sure you’re okay, got a place to sleep

_I’m fine_ , Michael had sent back, and left it at that. He’d found himself wanting to talk to Alex so many times, to make the same mundane complaints and observations that had filled their days together. He’d almost texted Alex and asked him to come to the drive-in, but in the end, he’d just stared at his phone until he gave up and put it away.

Someone knocked on the side of his truck, and he looked up to see Max walking toward the stage. He climbed out of the truck and followed Max around the back, waiting until Isobel finished her conversation and joined them.

“You still want to do this?” Max said to Isobel.

“It’s the easiest way we have to get information. And right now, it’s the only way.”

“Fine,” Michael said. “But I’m coming with you. You can take me in, right?”

“Yes,” Isobel said. “That leaves you to keep watch, Max.”

“Do you even have a plan to get to Jesse?” Max asked. “If he doesn’t know about Michael, maybe he shouldn’t be seen with either of us in public.”

“He’s parked over there.” Isobel gestured behind one of the food trucks. “I sincerely doubt he’ll stay for the movie, so once he’s behind the screen, he’ll be out of sight, and everyone watching the movie will be distracted. He won’t remember any of it.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea--”

Isobel cut off Max with an imperious handwave. “I cannot deal with this right now,” she said, peering around the screen and looking at the crowd. “The projector is broken and one of the food trucks is running out of hot dog buns. They only sell hot dogs! How are they running out?”

“You want me to take a look at the projector?” Michael offered.

Isobel’s gaze snapped to him. “Can you fix it?”

He shrugged. “It can’t be that complicated. Definitely easier than hot dog buns.”

“You’re the best!” She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and spun away towards the concession stand. Michael exchanged a quick eyeroll with Max before heading for the projector.

Fortunately he hadn’t gotten out of the habit of keeping his beat-up toolbox in the back of the truck. Once he got the projector open and blew out a bit of sand, it was obvious what wheels and knobs needed to be cleaned and greased.

“A man of many talents.” Alex appeared next to the platform with an expression Michael couldn’t read. He was reasonably sure it wasn’t the face of a man about to hogtie him and turn him over to the government, but he’d been wrong before.

Michael closed the projector and scanned the platform to make sure he had everything back in the toolbox. “Some problems are easy to fix.” After Michael jumped down, Alex trailed behind him and waited as he set the toolbox in the truck bed, his presence almost tangible.

“I’m glad you came,” Alex said, eyes squinted against the late-afternoon sun.

“I’m here with Max and Isobel,” Michael said.

“That’s good. Is that where you’ve been staying, with one of them?”

“Yeah.”

Alex sighed and scanned around them, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. “Look, I know this isn’t the place to talk about everything. It was--I needed some time to think.”

“Time to think about whether I should be locked up?” Michael asked.

“No,” Alex said, hand twitching like he wanted to touch Michael and reassure him. “I promise. You’re not in any danger from me.”

A knot of tension dissolved in his chest, and he tried to control his relieved exhale. He hadn’t thought Alex would trap him or turn him in, but he didn’t exactly have practice admitting he was an alien, and his instincts still screamed at him to strike out and run.

“You can understand why I was surprised,” Alex said.

“And you can understand why I didn’t tell you,” Michael retorted. “I thought I was coming to Roswell to check out those glowing alien shards the Emporium has. I didn’t expect--you.”

“I didn’t expect you either,” Alex said, his voice low.

Michael had thought Alex’s attitude towards him would change, now that he knew the truth. He’d expected words and glances laced with suspicion, body language warning him off and pushing him away. Alex was a soldier. He should have spent the last two days preparing battle plans, like Michael had tormented himself with scenarios that all ended in disaster.

But he still looked at Michael the same way. He still leaned into Michael’s space, close enough that Michael could feel his body heat. He smelled the cologne that Alex sometimes used, and it went straight to his hindbrain, bypassing any higher thought processes and translating the scent into _want_ , reminding him what it tasted like on Alex’s skin, bitter on his tongue.

Alex sighed when Michael didn’t respond. “How’s this sound? I’ve got a six-pack in my Jeep. I’ll go get it, and we can watch the movie from here.”

Michael weighed the offer. He wanted to accept. A big part of him wanted to sweep aside all of their problems and worries and luxuriate in the comfort of Alex’s touch, his warm regard, his smiles and reassurances.

He’d let his guard down, living with Alex. Being with Alex. It wasn’t a revelation, because he’d noticed it happening, and he’d let it happen. Ended his day in Alex’s bed and woke up in it the next morning. Sanded down his sharp edges until they meshed and matched with Alex’s. And when he stared that truth in the face, it scared the shit out of him.

On the other hand, after two days of Max’s well-meaning attempts to bond, the cabin sounded pretty good.

Michael nodded, a slight move of the head, and the smile broke across Alex’s face. He slapped a hand on the truck’s tailgate and said, “I’ll get the beer.”

*

When Alex got back, Michael relocated the truck to a less central spot, the better for them to quietly heckle Jesse Manes during his speech. It didn’t make him and Project Shepherd any less terrifying, but it was good to see him and feel contempt instead of panic. Their legs dangled off the tailgate as they sat and drank the beer.

When Jesse launched into a section about the God-given freedoms that the military protected, Alex scoffed. “He hasn’t been to church for fifteen years. He tried to get the minister to preach the gay out of me, and the minister told him that God had made me gay, and he had to accept me as I was.”

“I bet he took that well.”

“As well as he ever took anything about my sexuality. You’re the benefit of his most recent plan to turn me straight, whether that’s scaring it out of me, beating it out of me, or somehow manipulating me into accidentally sleeping with a woman.” When Michael stared at him, he added, “I’m not saying it was a good plan."

Michael decided to let that go in favor of another swig of his beer. He had plenty of family problems, but he’d take them over Alex’s.

“How did it go with Max and Isobel?” Alex said. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to.”

Michael took a second to think, but he wanted to share what had happened with Alex. “Yesterday was our birthday.”

“Seriously?” Alex’s eyebrows went up. “You didn’t tell me your birthday was coming up.”

“It’s just the anniversary of when we were found, so it’s not really--”

Alex cut off his instinctive minimizing of the day. “Everyone’s birthday is just an anniversary. Did you guys celebrate?”

“Isobel brought cupcakes, and we hung out at Max’s. Talking. They, uh--” Michael had to stop and clear his throat. “We got split up after we...arrived, and they got adopted.”

“I figured,” Alex said, his eyes warm with sympathy. “It sounds complicated. I’m happy to listen, if you want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, maybe later. But things are good now, I think.”

“That’s great, Michael. That’s really great.” He smiled, genuinely pleased about Michael’s happiness, which made Michael happy, and it set off a feedback loop where they kept smiling at each other like idiots until Jesse’s speech caught Alex’s attention again. Michael let himself stare at Alex until it got embarrassing.

As Manes’ speech was winding down, Michael’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

> Now or never. Behind the screen.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.

Michael shook his head, shoving his phone back in his jeans. “Just Isobel. Something else she wants me to fix. I’ll grab some snacks on the way back. Popcorn? Snickers?”

“You know what I like.”

Michael weaved through the cars and trucks between him and the stage. Isobel was right--the event was well attended, and she had been visible through the whole thing: reminding people to make donations and buy concessions, introducing Jesse, announcing fundraising totals. She had promised to make one last update after the movie ended, making sure that everyone expected to see her again.

Michael still didn’t like her plan, but they needed information, and taking it out of Jesse’s mind was the best idea they had.

As he got closer to the stage, he heard what had to be Jesse’s finale.

“Again, thank you for your generous donations supporting our men and women in uniform. God bless you all, and god bless the United States of America.”

As Michael marveled at the depth of Manes’ hypocrisy, people flowed away from the stage, returning to their vehicles as the first scenes of the movie appeared. He had to concentrate, dodging side mirrors and excited children, a few dogs, when out of nowhere, a hand gripped his upper arm as he reached the stage.

“Guerin,” Jesse Manes said, staring at him like he was nothing more than an insect he wanted to pin to a board.

Michael tensed to pull away from him but damped down the instinct. Running from Jesse would only solidify his position as predator, and Michael had no interest in being prey. “Master Sergeant Manes. Great speech. I loved the part about honor and integrity.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself, you know. Acting that way in public.” His voice was low and venomous. 

Michael snorted derisively. “Acting what way? Quick, someone cover the kids’ eyes before they see two men sitting next to each other in public.”

“I heard you had an inspection recently.”

Suddenly Michael’s uneasiness about the inspection felt justified. “Did you make that happen, you asshole?”

“Your position in my son’s life is only temporary,” Manes said, eyes cold. “He’s a decorated war veteran, and you’re just a Companion. Once your contract runs out, he won’t have any use for you.”

Michael’s caution evaporated, and he yanked his arm out of Jesse’s hold. “You don’t know anything about Alex.”

“He’s my son, Guerin. He always will be.”

Manes turned his back and walked away, and Michael wanted to launch himself at the man, channel all the anger and uncertainty into the furious relief of physical action. But when it came to Jesse, they had to keep a low profile, and punching out one of the town’s favorite soldiers would get him thrown in jail, which would invalidate the contract, and he needed the contract to keep him close to Alex.

Michael pulled a deep breath into his lungs, held it, and blew it out. His phone vibrated again--probably Isobel looking for him. He turned in the opposite direction from Manes and circled around the back of the stage.

“Where were you?” Isobel stage-whispered.

“Tell you later. We doing this?”

Jesse walked past the edge of the screen, heading for his truck. Isobel reached for Michael’s hand. He expected it to be like the reunion, where he’d been a spectator to Max and Isobel’s memories. But when Isobel touched him, the surroundings began to fade, like someone had turned down a dimmer switch. As it got darker, sound disappeared--the movie, the popcorn maker, the hum of generators. Isobel’s power isolated the three of them in a little pocket of privacy.

“Master Sergeant Manes,” Isobel said. Her voice echoed through the dark, empty corners of Jesse’s mind.

Jesse didn’t move, but he didn’t turn around either. He stood in place while Michael and Isobel walked towards his still form, hand in hand, circling around to face him.

“Isobel Evans,” Jesse said. His emotionless voice sounded the same in his mind as it did in the outside world. “Guerin.”

“You sure he won’t remember this?” Michael asked Isobel, and she shushed him.

“What do you know about us?” she said.

“You and your brother are invaders. An infection on our planet.”

Michael didn’t know if it was some power of Isobel’s or just his imagination, but he could feel the disgust pouring off Jesse, a miasma of hate and righteousness.

“What are you gonna do?” Michael asked. “I know you’ve got some kind of plan.”

“I’m going to find you and all of your kind,” Jesse said. “And I’m going to make sure you’re never a threat again.”

“We just want to be left alone,” Isobel insisted.

Jesse shook his head, a thin smile on his lips. “You lie. You manipulate and control the weak-minded. You force us to be complicit in our own destruction.”

“Tell us what you’re planning, you sick fuck.” He almost reached out for Jesse, but Isobel’s hand tightened on his.

“I’ve got assets,” Jesse said. “Dorsey. Flint. I’ve got seventy years’ worth of research into your people’s methods and technology.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” Michael said.

An ugly smile crept over Jesse’s face. “And you, Guerin. I’ve got you.”

*

“What the hell, Isobel?” Michael heard himself almost yelling and forced down the volume of his voice. “What was that supposed to mean?”

“How do I know? It was _his_ mind!”

He paced in the limited space available behind the food truck. Jesse had driven away in his truck, but the stink of his mind lingered, like some oily film Michael couldn’t clean off his skin. He’d occasionally wondered what went on in the minds of hateful, prejudiced people. Now he knew, and he regretted it.

“He said I was an asset.”

“Maybe it’s not what it sounds like,” Max said.

Michael rounded on him. “Tell me, Max, what else it could possibly mean?”

“I don’t know. But there’s no point in jumping to conclusions. What else did he say?”

“He mentioned one of Alex’s brothers, Flint.” Michael remembered Flint’s visit to the Project Shepherd bunker. “He’s definitely on Jesse’s side.”

“Dorsey,” Isobel said. “Do you think that’s Senator Dorsey?”

“Who?” asked Michael.

“One of New Mexico’s senators,” Isobel answered. “He’s the guest of honor at the Emporium’s reopening gala in July.”

“Seems like a decent enough guy, but you never know with politicians,” Max said.

“Or soldiers, apparently,” Isobel said. “Who knew Jesse Manes was that terrible?”

“Alex did.” Michael remembered the first time he’d met Jesse and Alex, the sense of misery that pervaded the house. He knew that feeling. He’d lived with that feeling before. “I bet the rest of his brothers know too.”

And speaking of Alex, Michael needed to get back to him. He’d already been away too long, and he didn’t want to explain to Alex what he’d been doing. It was one thing for Alex to accept that Max and Isobel were aliens, and an entirely different thing to learn that Isobel could get in people’s minds and influence them.

“I need to go,” Michael said.

“Are you coming back to my place?”

“No, I’m going back to the cabin.”

Max looked over to Isobel, waiting for her to chime in, but Isobel just raised her eyebrows at him. “Alex is okay with that? With you?”

“He says he is. Look, I’ll text you tomorrow, and we can figure out what to do.” Michael reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Time to buy some popcorn and candy.


	17. Chapter 17

It had never occurred to Alex to be frightened of Michael. Not when Michael knocked on his father’s door, this stranger who was an inch taller and twenty pounds of muscle bigger than him. Not when Michael put his hands on Alex to move him, or when he managed the pills in the beginning. Not when he hurled a kitchen set across the room with the power of his mind.

The cabin had rung with silence once Michael left. Alex picked up the mess, set his computer to rights, and dove back into the information he’d stolen from Project Shepherd. Work was easier than dwelling on Michael’s hurt expression when Alex had flinched from his touch. 

But he wasn’t frightened. 

Long past sunset, he texted Michael, knowing the man could take care of himself but also needing to know. Michael texted back: _I’m fine._ Alex forced himself to go to bed where sleep lapped at him with shallow waves. He dived back into the work at six in the morning. He read dozens of documents, watched the few video files about survivors of the UFO crash, and learned nothing practical about...aliens. About Michael.

On the second morning he woke up without Michael, an email from Isobel Evans reminded him it was the day of a fundraiser held at the drive-in to support veterans. He wanted to avoid his father; he wanted to see Michael more; and so he went, and while he couldn’t completely avoid Jesse Manes, he did see Michael. 

And Michael didn’t run away.

After the movie, greasy from popcorn and his butt numb from sitting in the bed of an old pickup truck for two hours, he stretched to shake feeling back into his legs. 

“I should be heading out,” he said. 

“Okay.” 

“Are you staying?” 

“Here?” 

“With one of the Evans.” 

“I don’t think so,” Michael said, “Max is a little...dour.” 

“Dinner conversation not up to your standards?” 

“That and he doesn’t have an extra razor.” He rubbed his palm over his chin. “You’d think living in a house with two guest rooms, he’d have an extra razor.” 

“Come back to the cabin.” Alex backpedaled from the command and said, “If that’s what you want.” 

“Yeah. If that’s okay.” 

“Yes. Of course.” The pins and needles in his legs were less painful than this careful negotiation, but on the ride home anticipation left little room for embarrassment, and when Michael arrived at the cabin twenty minutes later, Alex decided he was tired of hiding the affection that bubbled up whenever he walked into the room. 

“I remembered we were low on milk,” said Michael as he unloaded a grocery bag, “and the bars you like and--what?” 

“What, what?” Alex had closed his laptop at the kitchen table as soon as Michael had come through the door, smiling. He was still smiling. 

“I feel like I missed the joke.” 

“Maybe I just like having you home.” 

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Home?” 

“This is where you live,” said Alex.

“For now,” he granted. He finished putting away the few groceries and then took a quick turn in the bathroom before he retreated to the bunkhouse. No more conversation, no unsubtle hand on Alex’s neck, just a distracted nod, and then he was gone to sleep alone. 

Learning how to be with Michael was a complicated dance, two steps forward, one step back, but Alex was wearing him down. 

*

Alex fished around the small basket in his nightstand and swore. He was out of clean socks to wear under his prosthesis, and the laundry bag slumped in the corner by the door, dribbling clothes. He crutched into the kitchen, legless, socks threaded over his forearm, opened the hot spigot to fill the sink bowl not already filled with dirty dishes, dropped in the socks and swished them with dish soap. He shuffled over to the towel hanging on the oven handle to dry his hands and noticed the covered pan on the stove. The smell of cinnamon billowed out when he peeked under the lid.

Michael came in from the back porch, thumbing at his phone. “Hey,” he said. His eyes flicked over Alex’s crutches in passing as he came into the kitchen, opening cupboards, clattering bowls, setting them on the table. Alex sat at the table to get out of the way. “I made oatmeal after seeing how many power bar wrappers were in the trash.” He set the pan on the table. 

Alex scooped some into his bowl. “Apples. Nice.” 

“Yep. Think of the scurvy I’m preventing.” He rattled some more in the cupboard and finally sat down with two cups of coffee. 

“Do you spend much time thinking about scurvy?” 

“Only when you don’t eat real food.” 

“I meant for you.” 

“This is you asking about alien stuff.” Alex nodded, and Michael continued, “I’ve been hungry before, but I’ve never been sick. Ever.” 

“Never? Not a cold or the flu or chickenpox or…?” 

“I get hungover, but that’s just being stupid, not sick.” 

Alex chewed on that and his oatmeal for a bit.

“Sorry about, you know, shoving the table around,” Michael said eventually. “I’ll fix the chair.” The back of one chair had separated from the seat when it slammed into the fireplace. 

“If you want,” Alex said, diffident. “We only need two.” 

After eating, Michael discovered the socks in the sink and launched into fix-it mode, as if Alex’s shitty eating habits and lack of clean laundry were personal insults. He demanded Alex’s hair dryer so he could hand-wash and dry two socks for the day’s use, and then he scouted out every dirty towel and both sets of sheets and packed the laundry bag full. Michael still hadn’t touched him, but his low-key terrifying nanny act was a callback to their early days. Alex couldn’t say that he hated feeling cared for.

Caffeinated, dressed, leg on, Alex reorganized his messenger bag on the coffee table. He had the usual kit for his leg, minus an extra clean sock, and added a laptop, drives, and the RFID and AIDC tools he needed. 

“That looks like trouble,” said Michael. 

“I’m going back to the base.” 

“Not alone, you aren’t.” Alex glared at him, but Michael kept going. “It’s dangerous. What if your brother shows up again? And your dad, that man does not have your best interests at heart.” 

Alex snorted and continued organizing his bag. “Status quo, then.” 

“Fine. How long will it take? You want to go before or after PT? We can drop the laundry on the way.” 

“We? Absolutely not. Dad would--” 

“Would what? Lock me up? Pin me like a bug on a card? All of my horses are in this race, Alex. You can’t leave me out.” Alex started to protest and Michael cut him off. “And it’s not just me, it’s Isobel and Max, too. We’re the ones who lose everything if we don’t get your dad and his pet project off our backs.” 

They squabbled about it, but Alex knew Michael was right: Project Shepherd threatened Michael and the Evans twins, and Alex could use help getting out from under his father’s thumb. Since Jesse appeared to be the singular driving force behind Project Shepherd, it might solve everything if Jesse was removed from the equation. Then Michael added a wrinkle. “I told Max and Isobel about the files on them.” 

“I assumed.” 

“And Project Shepherd.” 

Alex frowned. 

“They want in.” 

“I’m not about to start giving tours, Michael. Whoever has access to any security cameras, and it’s likely at least my dad does, they’ll expect you or me or our vehicles, but we can’t expose anyone else.” 

“Okay, so maybe there’s no need to storm the bunker, but they’re going to do whatever they have to to protect themselves,” Michael said. “And I’m sick of secrets. We should do it together. Help each other out. Max is a journalist, he’s got resources. And apparently Isobel knows every rich person in New Mexico.” 

“Civilian resources,” said Alex, doubtful, but he did remember that the Evans family had money. He’d been to their parents’ house when the twins threw a pool party, and they weren't wealthy, they were rich. In high school, he wasn’t the only classmate who had wondered why they didn’t go to boarding school in Europe or even a prep school in Albuquerque. And here they were, still, living fairly modest lives in Roswell. 

Alex agreed they should meet, but after he checked on his security measures at the bunker. He also agreed that Michael should accompany him. Michael insisted on driving. Alex demanded to use his car, winning that battle with two words: “Air conditioning.” 

The arguments about relative safety, though valid, were moot. Nothing stirred at the abandoned base except dust. Alex’s security changes had held. After Flint had left last time, no one else had entered the bunker, and after Alex tinkered with them further, no one else could. Alex hunkered down, staging downloads before he pored over the security camera system. He wanted access from off-site, and he could get it, but he would have to lay hands on the right device before he could make that happen. 

“What are you getting this time?” Michael asked. 

“I’m trying for admin stuff. An org chart would be useful. My dad can’t be running this thing alone, even if he has Flint.” Alex stretched over the back of his chair. “A bank statement would be even better. Chasing money is how you fight terrorists.” 

“Is that what you did overseas?”

“Chase money?” 

“Fight terrorists.” 

He almost said _I did a lot of things_ but instead he said, “That’s the general idea.” 

“You don’t sound convinced.” 

“I was nominated for a medal. It was a big deal, just to be nominated. It was, uh--” his throat tightened “--recognition, for what I’d done. And I’m not proud of what I did. I mean, I did my job, and I did it well, but I did it under orders that I questioned then and I know now were wrong.” Noticing Michael’s glance down, he said, “That was a few years ago. It had nothing to do with.” He patted his thigh. “No, I got this while I was training local law enforcement.” 

Michael’s phone pinged, another text. He had been messaging back and forth with Isobel and Max since breakfast. “They’ll be in town later. We could meet up at the Emporium.” 

“Won’t the Greens have something to say about that?” 

“They won’t mind.” Michael grinned. “I’m gonna take you all on a tour.” 

*

Waiting with Michael in the lobby for the Evans to arrive, Alex noticed the new ticket booth with its two windows and nice seats. Alex wondered what happened to the old stool, and then he had an acute memory of Michael’s hands on him in the supply closet.

Isobel breezed in from the heat outside, followed by Max. “Hello. Good to see you again, Alex. You remember my brother, Max.” 

“Missed you at the reunion,” Alex said. 

“Yeah, there was a lot going on,” said Max.

Isobel asked Michael, “How long do we have? Where can we talk?” 

“Grant’s off-site today, and the contractors are working in the ballroom, but Graham will want to show you around and brag. He’s in a phone meeting until three, said he’d meet us in the main exhibit hall then, so that gives us,” he glanced at his phone, “forty minutes.” 

They met in the room where, back in the day, a handful of people could watch poor-quality videos of old news stories or hokey reenactments. The room had been completely overhauled as a cinema with seating for fifty. The seats were new, too, upholstered in a busy pattern of neon squiggles on a navy field. Even the walls had fabric panels to dampen echos, but they were the same unfortunate pattern.

Isobel and Max each took an aisle seat on the right and Alex took the one across from Isobel. Michael hovered near Alex, leaning on the back of his seat, too wired to sit. He popped out to check the hall every few minutes. 

“We have questions,” said Isobel. “Max and I.” 

“Michael told us about your father, the secret military base, the files on me and Isobel: all of it.” 

“That can’t continue,” Isobel said. 

Alex let them dangle in the echoless silence. Michael fidgeted and Max said, “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I haven’t heard a question yet.”

Michael guffawed into his hand, which looked like nerves instead of humor, and cleared his throat to cover it.

“Okay, let’s cut to the chase, then, shall we?” said Isobel. “Michael, check the door. And that projector room.” She nodded at the small window high on the back wall. Michael hesitated but he muttered _shit_ and hustled out. Before the door closed fully behind him, Isobel launched into her inquisition.

“Everyone knows your father is a soldier who takes his job very, very seriously,” she said, “and now _we_ know he’s got a secret military agenda that involves...us. And everyone knows,” she continued as she turned on her seat so she faced him square from across the aisle, “that you are also an airman, like your father. Do _you_ have a secret agenda that involves us?” 

It stung to hear her say _like your father_. He’d heard it before, not often, usually from his father’s military peers or cousins on the Manes side of the family. He almost asked, _Oh my god do you even remember anything at all about high school?_ because--

_They aren’t friends, but Roswell High School is small and the rumor mill is busy. The band kids respect his privacy more because he’s one of them, but Alex sees how everyone else looks at his make-up and piercing and_ assumes. _No one accuses Alex of being like his dad but it doesn’t matter what he wears or what people think, because he...will...never...be…._

“I’m nothing like my father, I--” He blinked, back in the present, and said, “My only agenda is to keep my father out of my life.” 

“What about Michael’s?” 

_That night, god, three times because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other and how we fit together, and after, and… He hasn’t touched me since he came back last night. All I can think of is the smell of bacon and the shock on his face when I flinched away and I am doing everything I can to_ fix this _because I regret it regret it regret it…._

“He lives with me.” Alex refused to be baited even if a very old shame tried to choke off his voice. “But I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in Dad’s way.” 

“Are we your enemies?” Isobel’s smile was predatory.

“Only if you’re Michael’s,” he retorted. “And I still wouldn’t give you up to my father.” 

She nodded as if satisfied with his answer but then she changed tack. “You looked cozy there, sitting in the back of the truck. Drinking beers and eating popcorn. With my brother.” 

“Brother?” 

“He is absolutely our brother.” 

“We share a bond,” said Max. “It’s kind of hard to explain.” 

“He told me.” 

“He told you how he was found with us on a dark night in 1997.” Isobel leaned forward. “Did he tell you anything else? Anything from before the group home? You know, we didn’t just materialize out of thin air.” 

“He said he doesn’t know.” Alex remembered the anguish on his face and he didn’t like the feeling of spilling secrets, but Michael admitted how he told the Evans everything he already shared with Alex about that night. “Is it the same for you two? Or do you have memories from before the home?”

“Max is right. It is hard to explain. Though I wonder if it’s possible to show you.” Isobel’s eyes narrowed.

“Iz,” warned Max, “you’ve done enough already.” To Alex he said, “She’s not talking about our lost history. It’s about how we know each other.”

“I know Michael.” Alex bristled internally.

“You _think_ you know Michael,” Isobel corrected him, “but you don’t know him the way we do, and you can’t, because you’re human.”

“I _know_ Michael,” insisted Alex, “and I don’t need to be like you to do it.”

“No, just get in his pants.”

“Okay, I’m done here.” Alex stood as Michael returned.

“No, wait, Alex, c’mon,” Max said, then turned on Isobel. “Isobel, cut it out. You’re not helping.”

“Not helping what?” asked Michael, suspicious, and walked down the aisle to stop next to Alex.

“We’re leaving.”

“Isobel, what did you do?” demanded Michael.

“Nothing that didn’t need to be done.”

“Max? Did she--?”

“Calm down, everyone,” said Max. “This isn’t helping.”

Isobel shrugged. “We don’t need him.”

“Yes, we do,” said Michael.

“Why bother with the prison guard when I can talk to the warden?”

That put Michael’s back up. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The Master Sergeant isn’t the head honcho, but I bet I know who is.”

Max darted confused glances at Isobel, and Michael glared daggers. Annoyed with the posturing, Alex demanded, “Are you going to keep us in suspense? Or can we all go home?”

“Senator Dorsey,” said Isobel. “We need to look into him.”

“Why him? What evidence do you have?” The senator’s name flipped open memories and associations for Alex: a fancy dinner with unsettling undertones, how casually Jesse had dropped the man’s name in the past. And the senator was known for the public pride he took in being from Roswell. Dorsey was a logical candidate to be involved with Jesse in a secret, military capacity, but that didn’t mean he was.

“Gossip,” said Isobel, “but the kind of gossip you only get at the right events.”

“That’s not evidence.” 

“But gossip can lead to evidence,” she argued, “and finding it is a matter of knowing the right people in the right venues. We know people in just the right circles.” 

Max’s expression opened in revelation. “Our grandfather used to play golf with him.”

“Mrs. Dorsey is the better bet. Mom was the treasurer on her Beautify Roswell plan a few years ago, and I had the delightful pleasure of listening to Mom complain about how much the missus complained about her senator.”

“So you don’t know for sure he’s connected,” said Alex. “You don’t have proof.”

“Let’s say I heard his name in a certain context that makes him look highly suspicious,” she said. “And I _will_ find out. Max can help.”

“Remember that part when I told you about the secret underground bunker full of documented atrocities committed against our people?” Michael said. “The senator is not the one with the actual files and a secret headquarters. You have access to the rich and famous, but Alex knows this shit. And if you really want to go with that metaphor, when you're locked up, it’s not the warden you worry about first.”

Isobel’s confidence broke, stricken by a softer emotion she aimed at Michael.

“Michael’s right. We should work together,” Max affirmed, causing Isobel to whip back to glare at him, silently disagreeing, and to appease her, he said, “Everything’s pretty much on the table already. Alex _knows_ about us. And he knows more about what this project can do. We can help each other.”

Isobel crossed her arms and turned her head away, a teenaged sulk that, when Alex looked closer, hid how she bit her lip.

“The fact that you never knew about Shepherd is a good thing,” he said. “There’s no hard proof in your file that you’re--” he shrugged “--so maybe the surveillance is there to, I don't know. Catch you in the act.”

Isobel scoffed. “Of being alien?” She didn’t shy from the word. 

“Some kind of proof. An x-ray, a blood test. DNA. Moving things around without touching them.”

“Witnesses. There aren’t any,” said Max, grim. “We’ve been careful.”

“Maybe not as careful as you think, but yeah, the evidence appeared circumstantial in the reports.”

“So what do we do?” asked Michael.

“Muckraking is a time-honored tradition,” said Max, “and every politician has enemies. I call them sources. If there’s dirt to be found on the senator, I can find it.”

“So we find his enemies.”

“And convince them to give up the dirt,” said Isobel.

“Or steal it.”

Isobel asked, “What about this secret headquarters?”

“Alex and I have it covered,” Michael said quickly.

“We’re on the same page here, right?” said Max. “Isobel?”

Her pale eyes cut to Alex, who had been left out as the three of them gained momentum with their plans. “I trust his intentions, but what do I know about his methods?”

Max smiled without humor. “That’s why people have meetings.”

Rather than engage in power games with Isobel, Alex stuck to the practical. He disqualified the cabin as a meeting venue because he knew his father monitored his comings and goings, and there was no need to expose the Evans that blatantly. The twins bickered over whose house they should use while Michael interjected his opinion when he could. They reminded Alex of the squabbles he and his brothers got into as kids, and Michael, though he was the same age as the twins, came off as the younger brother. Alex knew Michael had lost decades that he otherwise might have spent with this small family. Now Alex was witnessing the effects of that loss in real time.

“Hey, it’s almost three o’clock,” Michael said. “Max’s place is away from town, so let’s go with that before Graham finds us in here and decides to join the party.” He led them to the main exhibit hall where Isobel stalked about, assessing the progress on the renovation, and Max ambled between display cases like a tourist. Alex retreated to the door, ready to bolt. He had a legitimate excuse--he did have a PT appointment this afternoon--but after getting caught having sex in a closet by the man, he also wanted to escape meeting--

“Graham Green!” said Isobel, a professional smile replacing her critical gaze as she stepped forward.

“Shit,” Alex muttered. “I wanted to avoid this.”

Michael sidled close and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“What do you think is wrong? He literally caught me with my pants down.”

“Catch you with your pants down? I call that a good day.” Michael grasped his arm at the elbow and tugged him close for peck on the cheek before leaning back. Alex bit his lips, face warm.

Two steps forward.

* * *

**https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Dorsey**

Robert Thomas Dorsey, (born April 23, 1961) is an American politician serving as the senior United States Senator from New Mexico since 1994, when he defeated incumbent Senator Peter Russell in the Republican primary. After leaving the Air Force, Dorsey served in the New Mexico State House of Representatives for the 58th district from 1988 to 1994 as a Republican. He rose to prominence for his willingness to cross the aisle and sponsor bipartisan legislation. A native of Roswell, New Mexico, Dorsey serves on the Appropriations and Veterans' Affairs committees. As Chairman of the latter from 2002-2006, Dorsey pushed for increased funding for VA hospitals and vocational training. He was mentioned as a possible nominee for Vice President of the United States...

* * *

Alex drove out to the bunker to verify his security measures were holding. Jesse’s credentials had tried to enter the bunker the day after Alex had locked him out, and failed. He’d tried again the following day and again failed to open the door, but Alex tinkered with the system and beefed up what he’d installed last time to make sure his modifications would stick. Without the official support of the US military, Jesse had nothing to back him up. He would remain locked out. _Fuck off, Dad._

Satisfied with the results, he turned to the server and started downloading more material to look at the cabin. His phone vibrated.

> Michael: cant meet you for lunch. Green sent me out to east buttfuck for a snake baby

> Alex: What’s a snake baby

> Michael: looks like mummified hare and rattlesnake sewn together

> Michael: ALIENBABY1.png

> Alex: Tasty. What about the thing at Max’s

> Michael: meet me there

> Michael: bring takeout

> Alex: You want your snakebaby med rare or well done

> Michael: fuck u I want tamales

They texted back and forth, getting the details of Michael’s order right, and Alex’s cheeks relaxed when he put his phone away. He’d been grinning at it the entire exchange. His phone pinged. 

> Maria: Happy hour tonight? Rosa and Liz will be there.

Happy hour for them was three in the afternoon, just after Maria’s full-time bartender prepared for the evening and before the regular barflys lit on their usual perches. Alex and Maria had met three times now, the two of them and a variable guest schedule--Michael, Rosa, or Liz.

_Raincheck?_ he texted. Max and Isobel expected him and Michael at Max’s house at 2:00.

> Maria: Nooooo! Okay fine.

> Alex: See you next Wed

> Maria: Can’t. Wed is Star Spangled Shots for the 4th. Join the party!

> Alex: I’d rather get punched in the dick

> Maria: LOL is that what you and Michael call it?

> Alex: No comment

> Maria: Thursday?

> Alex: Ok see you then

His phone rang before he could put it in his pocket: Naveed. Alex answered.

“I’ve got something for you,” Naveed announced. “A transcript.” 

“Hell yeah, I knew you’d pull it out. How soon can you email it?” 

“Yes,” Naveed drew out the word, “I will email it of course, but maybe it’s time I teach a man to fish.” 

“Seriously?” Excitement filled Alex. Since they’d met, Naveed had been a mentor in matters of hacking computer networks, but he’d only hinted at the breadth of his skills with technology. 

“It’s an inexact metaphor that depends on if there is a river or fish to be had, but in this case, I can show you how to plunder the ocean,” he said. “Considering what I found, I’m doing myself a favor by teaching you.” 

*

Max hadn’t changed much over the past ten years that Alex could see. He was a mild tempered, mildly awkward book nerd with a trust fund, wrapped in a bro body. His house was nicer than what a twenty-something, local paper reporter could afford, and the wide-open vista and lack of neighbors suggested the nice house sat on a very large plot of land. Max led Alex through a clutter of book shelves and leather furniture to the patio and fire pit in the backyard where Isobel occupied a chair like she’d planted a flag. 

“You brought lunch?” she asked.

“For Michael, yeah. He’s running late.” Alex set a take-out bag on the table, slung his messenger bag on the back of a chair, and sat down. 

“That’s thoughtful of you.” 

“It’s basic care and feeding of Companions,” he retorted, annoyed by her patronizing tone. 

“I wasn’t suggesting you don’t take care of him.” 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Max cut in. 

“Oh, calm down. I’m not going to bite.” To Alex she said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day.” 

Michael popped out the back door and joined them on the patio. “And what foot is that?” 

A pleasant zing derailed Alex’s sparring with Isobel. “Um, hi. I thought you’d be later.” 

“The snake baby came early.” 

“I brought your lunch,” said Alex, but Michael was already around the table and rummaging in the bag. He pulled a chair close to Alex’s before he sat down. 

“Snake baby?” asked Max. 

“Think jackalope, but with a snake.” He waved a hand. “Emporium stuff; it’s gross. You got anything to drink?” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Might as well do this right,” Isobel griped as she left her chair for the kitchen. 

“This isn’t a garden party. I can serve drinks in my own house,” Max protested as he followed her. 

“I know,” she accused, “but it’s your fridge we’re working with and I’m hungry.” The bickering continued as they disappeared inside, leaving the door open. 

“Hey.” Michael held up a tamale as he leaned close and dropped a kiss on the corner of Alex’s mouth. “Thanks.” 

Alex looked away as if the desert scrub interested him, awash with inward pleasure and trying to restrain the torrent before he said too much. Said too little. Said anything.

“Hey,” Michael said again, retrieving Alex’s attention. 

“What?” 

Michael’s smile unfurled, lazy and sweet, and he licked his bottom lip. “Hi.” Alex shook his head and mirrored the smile. Michael ate, and Alex watched him, and the quiet affection they never named kept them company without fanfare. 

“So, what do we start with?” Isobel’s voice broke the calm as she carried bowls of chips and salsa from the house. “The fact that Master Sergeant Manes is part of a super secret military organization with seventy years’ worth of research into aliens or the fact that Master Sergeant Manes knows we’re aliens?” She slammed the bowls on the table and dropped into her chair. Michael’s tamales jumped.

“No one’s come looking for us,” Max said.

“Yet.” Isobel raised her chin. 

“Yet,” he agreed, “which is probably in our favor.” 

“But who says they won’t start now?” 

“Here’s a thing,” Michael said. “The secret military organization isn’t exactly bonafide.” He glanced at Alex, who explained how Project Shepherd no longer had no official connection to the military and had, in fact, no money he could detect. 

“That could mean I just haven’t found it,” Alex said. “I need more information.” 

“We,” Isobel interjected. “We need more information.” 

“I want to see the files on us,” Max added.

Alex reached for his laptop. He had expected this; he’d want to know if he was in their position, so he had brought copies of their files. Michael scooted his chair close and braced his arm along Alex’s chairback to make room as the others crowded around, close enough for Alex to notice his jaw clench as the information on Max and Isobel displayed on the monitor. 

“This includes the single day I went to ENMU,” said Isobel, disbelieving. “I withdrew completely; the school doesn’t even have a record of me. And they found that out?” 

“That wasn’t me,” Max declared, pointing to a report of localized power-failure from eight years ago. 

“So the other reports about sparks and blown electronics _were_ you,” Alex confirmed. “Just what is it that you...do?” 

Max hemmed and hawed until Michael butt in: “He affects electro-magnetic fields. All the flying sparks and blackouts and stuff.” 

“There’s nothing recent,” Alex observed. 

“I learned to control it.” 

“We all did,” Michael added. 

Alex stared at him, thinking how the kitchen table slammed instantly across the room, how Michael had been angry, and he said, “Like at the cabin?” 

“People stomp their feet or slam doors when they’re angry,” said Isobel. “Some of us slam tables instead.” 

Prickling all over, Alex leaned away and said, “How do you know it was a table?” 

“Well,” Isobel straightened and took a step back, “Michael told me, of course.” 

He cocked an eyebrow at her and knew she didn’t have to be telepathic to know he was thinking _bullshit_. “So what is it that _you_ can do? This says you force people to do things.” 

“I don’t _force_ anything.” 

“I did tell her,” said Michael, “that morning. About the table.” 

Alex looked from Michael to Isobel. “But you do have mind powers.”

“Trust me, if they were actually useful, I’d have gotten Hamilton tickets on my trip to New York last spring. But we’re not here to talk about that,” she said. “We’re here to talk about how we could be hauled away and experimented on by scientists.” 

Alex felt Michael’s arm brushing his shoulder tense at her words. Their fear was understandable. “That’s...unlikely to happen without resources.” 

“Unlikely,” Max repeated. “Just because you can’t find the money doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” 

“What is your motivation in all this, Alex Manes?” Isobel crossed her arms. 

Alex frowned at the use of his full name. 

“I believe you when you say you’re nothing like your father, and I know you’re devoted to Michael enough to keep him protected, but why are _you_ putting in so much work into preventing something that’s unlikely to happen?” 

No longer leaning close to view the laptop, Isobel and Max stood on either side of Alex and Michael’s chairs, flanking them. 

“And what about your father?” she continued. “We heard the rumors in high school--not the rumors you were gay; that was never much of a secret--but that your father was _mean_. You left Roswell before the ink dried on your diploma.” 

“You don’t visit him,” Max said before Alex could open his mouth. “I interviewed him when you came home from Iraq and I could read between the lines of his answers.” 

“And he was in the New Year’s parade. He was polite and professional but I know he was _not_ happy you didn’t join him. There’s bad blood between you.” 

“It’d be better to let this sleeping dog lie,” Max said. “Would he even bother with us if you weren’t digging into his business?” 

“His thoughts aren’t subtle. It doesn’t take much imagination to know what he did to you. Your thoughts aren’t all that subtle either, and I’m not surprised that you want to ruin him, but your fight for revenge could get us killed.” 

“Stop it!” Michael stood abruptly, knocking his chair over and getting into Isobel’s face. He glared at Max. “Both of you, just stop it. He’s not out for revenge, so sit the fuck down and _listen_.” He remained standing, glaring at the Evans until they sat down. Alex felt Michael’s hand brushing his back where he gripped the chair. 

Isobel clung to her line of questioning. “If you don’t want revenge, then what are you doing?” 

Alex inhaled carefully, controlled. Michael’s hand rested on Alex’s shoulder a moment before he took his seat, their chairs still close, and the proximity helped, because he wasn’t shaken, but the twins’ accusations stung parts of him he worked hard to keep hidden. 

“My father hasn’t had a say in my life since I left home after high school, but somehow he got my orders changed to bring me here to Roswell, and I’m not going to let that stand. Trying to find out how he made it happen is what led me to Project Shepherd. Maybe he’s got enough connections in the Air Force to fuck with my career, or maybe there’s more to Project Shepherd and he used it somehow. I don’t know that yet.” 

“Meanwhile, we get hung out to dry?” Isobel crossed her arms. 

“You can read minds and think for a second I’d let something happen to Michael?” 

“I don’t ‘read minds.’” Isobel mimed quotes as she rolled her eyes.

“And you said you knew I’d protect Michael. You’re right. I will protect him.” 

“So let’s go destroy this command post,” said Max. “Get rid of anything to do with us so the military doesn’t have it.” 

“It’s not that simple. There are other locations. One for sure. There could be more.” 

“Blowing up the one here in Roswell would be a good start,” Isobel said tartly. 

“But then we wouldn’t know where the rest of Project Shepherd is hiding,” said Michael. 

“If they have redundancies, then it doesn’t matter if we blow the bunker sky-high. Or maybe there’s nothing else, and my dad is...” Alex shook his head. That his father was losing his mind remained a possibility. “Your idea about Senator Dorsey being involved makes a lot of sense.” Friends in high places--it could explain the change in Alex’s orders.

“There’s more to this,” Michael said. “Alex found stuff you should see.” 

“Like what?” said Max.

At Michael’s request, Alex had brought decades-old film footage of wilting plants and floating objects along with the files on the Evans. Alex agreed because the films were innocuous enough without context and included images of the aliens--of the people--that Max, Isobel, and Michael were connected to. 

“Just look.” Michael nodded to Alex, and everyone gathered around once more.

*

Alex left after getting nothing done except verbally circling around Isobel as she circled around him, clashing over the semantics of the same damn goal. Yes, Project Shepherd was a thing; yes, most of its teeth had been pulled; yes, Jesse Manes--his father--was one of those remaining teeth. Isobel, supported by Max, lobbied for destruction of anything physical to do with the project: files, servers, command center. Even if he could pull off that level of destruction--with or without getting caught--Alex knew there were deeper roots to pull, and they ended up where they’d started: no plan, no progress, while Michael watched from the sidelines and leapt in to keep the peace when anyone got too vicious. 

No, Alex reasoned as he drove north, heading home; it wasn’t for nothing. He and Isobel and Max got to know each other better. Isobel was lightning-quick. Max was tenacious. They were scared of Alex, even though they knew he was on their side, because of his father. Alex was scared of them, too, even though they were Michael’s family, because they had strange abilities they refused to define clearly. In his mind, they were in a different category than Michael and--disagreements aside--they were in this together because of Michael. Knowing each others’ strengths and fears provided useful information to build a strategy. 

At the cabin, Alex took stock of the kitchen and pulled together a meal for the both of them even though Michael had stayed behind. He would come home eventually. He might be hungry, if he didn’t eat dinner at Max’s. He didn’t show up for dinner, but Alex knew he would show up, eventually. 

Michael did come home--eventually--and caught Alex wrist-deep in dishes. 

“Hey,” Alex said. Again, the little thrill speared him when he saw Michael. “There’s leftovers.” 

“Naw, I’m good. We ordered pizza.” 

“Did they back down from their plan to bomb a US military installation?” 

“Only because they know they can’t do it without you. Hey, I can do those.” Michael jerked his chin at the sink.

“I get that they’re scared. This whole situation sucks.” 

“Sit down,” said Michael, hovering, trying to edge Alex away from the sink.

“I’ve been doing dishes since I was five.” Alex stood firm and swished another plate with the dishcloth. “I know how to do it.” 

“Yeah, but it’s my job.” That joking tone. Alex hated it.

“Oh my god, enough with the job.” 

“What? I got a piece of paper with our signatures that says, yeah, washing the dishes is my job.” Michael was smiling, his eyes were easy, playful. He was also going for the dishrag. 

“But I don’t want it to be your _job_.” 

Michael hesitated at Alex’s sharpness. “Washing the dishes? I’m...Alex, I’m just kidding.”

“Are you? You said we could work around the contract, but do we?” 

“You’re not talking about the dishes.” 

“I’m talking about this! Everything between us! It’s not a job! It’s not a--a contract! It hasn’t been since--” _since you kissed me; since you gave me dignity; since the day you helped me out of my father’s house; since I saw your picture in a catalogue_. He pressed his lips together because if he opened his mouth, a bolder truth would fly out. He faced Michael. His hands were wet with dishwater and his throat tightened, but he refused to give into nerves. “Getting along would’ve been hard, but I could have sent you back soon as I got my leg, and that was months ago. I don’t need you to take care of me but god, I want you here. You know that, Michael. Tell me you know that.”

“Alex,” he said weakly.

“I want you here. Here with me, I want--”

Michael cupped his face and kissed him. Alex opened to him, desperate, clasping his sides, up his back, into his hair. A broken, unhappy sound hummed through Alex because he didn’t have the words to define the terror and joy that filled him equally. 

Michael nuzzled his cheek, caressed his neck, shushed him. “I want to be here,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll prove it.” He dipped, wrapped his arms around Alex’s thighs, hoisted him up and lurched to the bedroom, Alex overcome with the joy, laughing. 

*

Alex’s nerves hummed with pleasure, after; energized instead of sleepy. “You want the shower?”

“Nah. I’m basking.” Michael was spilled across the sheets languorous and sweet as he came down, belly spattered with come and his hair dark with sweat.

Alex lowered himself on Michael, smearing the mess between them, then kissed him and rolled away, laughing at Michael’s annoyance. In the shower he sat on the bench and let hot water beat down on his head, humming a song, occasionally singing a phrase before closing his mouth again to wash his face or rinse shampoo. He turned off the water and heard Michael out in the kitchen, talking, most likely on the phone with Isobel or Max. They made an odd family, but Alex didn’t doubt their connection.

Michael raised his voice, arguing with a male voice that Alex didn’t know. And then another joined in. He recognized neither of them and moved quickly to yank on his dirty sweats. He grabbed his crutches, hair still dripping, and hurried out of the bathroom.

A man in a suit and a man wearing a deputy sheriff’s uniform stood just inside the door. Michael was arguing with them.

“Are you Alexander Manes?” asked the deputy.

“They accused me of breaking some rule of conduct,” said Michael. He was shirtless as well, his jeans low on his hips, zipped but the button was loose.

“What?”

“There has been a complaint made against this Companion,” announced the other man. “He’s to be removed immediately pending an investigation.”

“Who the hell are you?” asked Alex. “And why is there a deputy sheriff in my house?”

“I am Lewis Mosley, Compliance Officer for Solon Companion Company. Deputy Sheriff Huber is here to help me execute the order for Michael Guerin’s removal.”

“You can’t do that,” said Alex. “He’s my Companion and I don’t release him from the contract.”

“I sure as hell didn’t ask for this either!” said Michael.

“Here’s the order.” The man held up a folded document.

Michael hunched in on himself, angry and lost, and Alex began to crutch around the coffee table to join him by the fireplace, but the deputy blocked Alex with a hand on his chest. The touch on his bare skin made him cringe but he stood his ground.

“Just let the man do his job.” 

Michael’s chin went up. “Where are you taking me?” He was ignored.

Alex struggled to get around the deputy, but short of attacking the man, he couldn’t do anything. Deputy Huber asked, “Are you ready to calm down?”

This was bureaucracy. Authority. Familiar. Alex put on his officer voice instead of a uniform and held out his hand. “Give me the order.” The rep gingerly extended it. Alex snatched it by the top and shook it open one-handed and started skimming for keywords. _Abuse of Patron_. _Order of Protection_. Dread plunged cold through him. “Where are you taking him?”

“That is no longer your concern,” said Mosley.

“The hell it isn’t.” Alex continued to pore over the form until Michael said, “Alex?” 

In his unbuttoned jeans and bare feet, still Michael looked equally ready to attack the interlopers or dive through the window to escape into the night. “What do you want me to do here?”

“Mr. Manes is under an Order of Protection and you’re not to communicate--”

“There’s a _restraining order_?” Michael looked horrified. “What the _fuck_ is going on?” 

“--show some decorum, Mr. Guerin--”

_Stay,_ Alex thought, desperate. _Help me kick these assholes out and stay._ He fastened on to a clause in the order and overrode the representative’s attempts to shut Michael down with more legalese. “I’m not going to corroborate the accusation!” To Michael he said, “They have to release you directly after the company inquiry intake, but you can’t come back here. Call your family.”

“We’re leaving _now_ , Mr. Guerin,” said Mosley. “Mr. Manes, you’ll be notified within twenty-four hours of any actions taken.”

Alex moved toward Michael, unable to stop himself, and again the deputy loomed over him.

“I’m going. I’m going. Watch me, I’m heading out the door,” said Michael, palms up. Mosley stood aside to give him space, nose wrinkled at Michael’s bare chest. Michael shot Alex a last look and followed into the night outside.

“At least let him get dressed,” protested Alex.

“The Program people will take care of him.” The deputy stood at the door watching Alex until Michael was closed into the back seat of a Lexus and the representative drove off, taking him away.


	18. Chapter 18

Isobel came without question when Michael called her the next morning. The questions came later, as they drove away from the sheriff’s office.

“What are you wearing?”

Michael looked down at the logo on his too-small t-shirt. “The SCC rep gave me a kit. I guess they like to be prepared for yanking people out of their homes.” In addition to the t-shirt, the Displacement Kit contained a small toothbrush, a miniscule tube of toothpaste, deodorant, a comb, and a couple of wet wipes. He sniffed experimentally--yeah, he smelled exactly like what he and Alex were doing right before the SCC people came. Wet wipes might not be a bad idea.

He could also use a pair of underwear, but it probably wasn’t the time to mention that to Isobel.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Isobel asked.

“Someone registered a complaint. They said I’m abusing Alex.”

“They said _what_?” The car jerked a little on the road with her shock.

Michael was so angry that his stomach hurt and his hands shook. The humiliation of being taken away, no time to stuff any of his clothes and possessions into a plastic trash bag, made him feel thirteen again, dragged out of one foster home and shunted to the next. Add to that the abuse accusation, as if he could ever hurt Alex. The whole situation was demeaning and insulting.

He’d spent the night slumped over in a chair, unable to leave the sheriff’s office until the Solon rep from Albuquerque arrived in the morning to speak to him and go through his suspension paperwork. The deputy who’d arrived at seven to relieve Deputy Huber waited until he left, then swiveled at her desk to face Michael.

“Sorry about the chair. We do have a cot that we pull out occasionally, but I’m guessing Huber didn’t tell you that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t have slept any better.”

“Do you have someone to call other than your Patron? A place to stay?”

He nodded, wishing his head wasn’t pounding from lack of sleep and no food. “I’ve got my phone. I’ll call her as soon as the rep clears me to leave.”

“Did you do what they’re accusing you of?” She was pretty, with blonde hair and delicate features, but she didn’t look like she had much patience for bullshit.

“Do you care?”

“About whether you’re guilty? Of course.” Every deputy in the office would probably give him the same answer, but he thought maybe she meant it.

“What’s your name?”

“Cameron,” she said.

“No, Deputy Cameron,” Michael said, thinking of Alex. Alex laughing as he pressed kisses into Michael’s neck. Alex hissing in pain and then relaxing under Michael’s touch. Alex reaching out in the night to make sure Michael still shared his bed. Alex’s stricken face as he watched Michael being loaded into the car and driven away. “I didn’t abuse my Patron.”

“Okay,” Cameron replied, after a searching look. “The Solon rep should be here in about half an hour.”

When the representative arrived, he explained that a complaint had been filed, accusing Michael of physical, mental, emotional, and financial abuse of Alex. All of the details were confidential, so they couldn’t tell him who had filed it or if it mentioned any specific events.

The contract gave him the right to temporary housing while the investigation took place. They’d offered, and he had resisted the urge to tell them that he’d sleep on a park bench in the middle of winter before taking anything from SCC. The rep also told Michael they could coordinate pickup of his truck, since Michael was not allowed to see or contact Alex until the investigation was complete. He couldn’t even go to the Emporium, since the contract had provided the money for his work there.

He gave Isobel the short version and was gratified when she replied, “That’s such a load of crap.”

“You believe me?”

“Michael.” She took his hand and squeezed it hard enough to hurt. “Of course I believe you. You can stay with me if you want or go back to Max’s. Do you know how long the investigation is supposed to take?”

“It depends. If Alex supported the accusations, they’d file charges against me and I’d probably go to prison. Even without his support, they have to investigate internally, and I have no idea how long it will take." He sighed and drummed his fingers on the center console.

“Everything will be all right. He’ll tell them you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I just--” Michael abandoned the sentence instead of saying what he wanted--he wanted to go home. To the cabin, to Alex. To the life they’d started building with bricks made of comfortable routines, private jokes, smiles and touches.

Isobel shot him a sympathetic look. “You’re together.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t know if she read him that easily or if Alex had told her when they met at the Emporium.

Michael exhaled noisily. “Yeah. At least, we were.” He waited for Isobel’s comment. She might lecture him about the inadvisability of a Companion falling for his Patron, or ask probing questions designed to discover if Alex was taking advantage of him, or just remind him that she’d been suspicious of Alex’s motives. And he wasn’t in the mood to spend any more time defending himself or his relationship with Alex.

Isobel seemed to sense that, or maybe she was more sympathetic than he expected. “Any idea who filed the complaint?”

“No, they’re not allowed to tell me.” He’d lay money on it being Jesse Manes or someone he controlled, but he hadn’t been able to think of a way to prove it, sitting in that chair all night. SCC would clear him--he was pretty sure Jesse couldn’t rig the investigation--but until they did, Alex was alone.

“It’ll be okay, Michael. Max and I are still digging, and we’ve found out some things about Senator Dorsey. Alex will keep searching for information about his father and Project Shepherd. We’ll figure all of this out.”

Her phone began ringing, playing a pop song Michael didn’t know. “Hello, this is Isobel Evans.” A moment passed, and then, “Alex?”

Michael wheedled the phone away from Isobel. Alex sounded upset, but he reassured Michael that he was okay, and for a few minutes, Michael could try to forget that he might never get to return to the cabin. 

*

Isobel’s house was more centrally located, but equally as fancy as Max’s. Where Max’s looked expensive but lived-in, Isobel’s could have been in a magazine. Breakables crowded every nook and table, and Michael was afraid to take a wrong step.

At least he’d been able to talk to Alex. As short as the conversation had been, it had reassured both of them that the other was okay for the moment. And for the first time in a long time, Michael wasn’t alone.

Isobel noticed him gingerly moving around the furniture. “Come on. Crash out on the couch for a while, if you want, or I can show you to the guest room. I’m going to call Max and fill him in on what happened. Then he’s going to get his ass over here so we can plan our next move.”

“I didn’t know we had moves,” Michael said, starting to feel a little loopy from the long night and the drive.

“Trust me. My moves are excellent.” As Michael sank wearily down on the couch, Isobel said, “A shower wouldn’t be a bad idea either, but the couch can always be cleaned. I’ll tell Max to bring over some clothes.”

Michael slept until Max arrived, then took a quick shower and put on clean clothes. He was still tired but he was functional, at least.

“You okay?” Max asked. Michael was familiar with Max’s sympathetic face, which he’d deployed several times when Michael was staying with him. He appreciated the sentiment, but he and Max hadn’t yet worked out their dynamic. It was easy with Isobel--they shared the same caustic sense of humor--but Max’s quieter personality rubbed him the wrong way sometimes.

“I’ve been better.”

“Drink some water,” Isobel said, plopping a bottle down in front of him before she settled on the couch with Max. “You look dehydrated.”

“I spent the night in the sheriff’s office, not the desert.” The water tasted good, though. He was learning that it was easiest to just go along with what Isobel wanted in most situations.

“I’ve been working my way through Roswell’s high society, such as it is. I had lunch with Mom and Nancy Cabot last week. And by lunch, I mean a three-ounce piece of seabass and cauliflower rice, because we still think carbs are the enemy. If only I could tell them about my true enemy, the United States government. Then Nancy Cabot led me to Martha Radcliffe, and her aesthetician does Whitney Dorsey’s nails, so it was only a question of booking an appointment at the right time. Whitney and I are best buds now.” 

“And Whitney is--” Max asked.

“Senator Dorsey’s daughter.”

“She’s not exactly the kind of high-level source we were looking for.”

Isobel scoffed. “Says a man who’s never spent an hour getting a mani-pedi and drinking chardonnay. And I’ve seen you without shoes, so I know that’s true.” Isobel waggled her manicured fingers at Max, the sparkly gray nail polish catching the light.

“Getting back to the government conspiracy that wants to capture us…” Michael prompted.

“After a few hints, Whitney invited me over for cocktails with Mommy Dearest. And after a few vodka tonics, Katherine--‘call me Kiki’--was happy to complain about her husband.”

“Did she have anything useful to say?”

“She had quite a lot to say, especially once I started name-dropping. Complaining about how the senator spends all his time working and never pays attention to her. If he’s not in Washington, he’s on the phone talking to his cousin about his company.”

“What company?” Michael asked. “Are senators allowed to have companies?”

“Hold on,” Max said. “I dug up a bunch of old articles about him from ‘93 and ‘94. He had an uphill battle in the primary against the incumbent Republican senator, because Dorsey owned a business called Solon Companion Company. Russell hammered him about it at their first debate, so Dorsey swore he would divest from the company and turn it over to his cousin.”

“And he just--didn’t?” Isobel said.

“Maybe not,” Max said. “The other thing I dug up? His financial disclosures for the past ten years. There’s nothing in there about any income from a private company.”

Isobel snatched Max’s phone out of his hands to read what was onscreen. “Michael? What company did you sign up with?”

“SCC,” he confirmed. “They had the most New Mexico placements. You think Dorsey still owns it?”

“It’s a hell of a coincidence if not.” Max started ticking off items on his fingers. “A disabled service member from Roswell, whose father has an evil secret project based in Roswell, getting a Companion from a company owned by a U.S. senator from Roswell.”

“I’m the coincidence,” Michael said. “Jesse didn’t know he was getting Alex an alien. Or a man.”

“How big of a problem is this for Dorsey?” Isobel asked.

“It’s bad,” Max said. “He lied on his disclosure forms. Even if criminal charges aren’t filed, he’d have to resign.”

“It doesn’t connect him to Project Shepherd, though,” Michael pointed out.

Isobel scoffed and tossed Max’s phone onto the empty couch cushion between them. “Come on. If he’s close enough to Jesse Manes to do him a favor like getting an actual Companion for Alex, what are the chances that he’s not part of Project Shepherd?”

“He’s paying for it,” Max said. “All of that funding has to come from somewhere.”

“But it’s secret,” Michael emphasized, feeling like he was missing something. “There’s no way they’re getting money from the government to hunt aliens.”

“He must be hiding it somehow. He--hold on.” Max grabbed his phone and scrolled for a few seconds. “He’s on the Appropriations committee. Project Shepherd probably doesn’t require a lot of money, not when you compare it to the billions of dollars spent on other government programs.”

“So he just sneaks it through?” Michael said incredulously. “Rich people get away with so much shit.”

Max shrugged. “It’s probably some minor line item that no one cares about. They rubber-stamp it without anyone knowing what it is.”

“Except Dorsey,” Isobel replied. “Max, send me that article with the name of his cousin. I think it’s time for another round of cocktails with Kiki.”

* * *

**SOLON COMPANION COMPANY’s Duties and Responsibilities**

1\. SOLON COMPANION COMPANY (hereafter “SCC”) will

a. Match COMPANION with a PATRON based on the criteria provided by both parties and assign COMPANION to provide the work described in Exhibit A;

b. Pay COMPANION's requested compensation amount in a lump sum upon arrival of COMPANION at PATRON's domicile;

c. Perform a background check, credit check, medical tests, and any other necessary due diligence on PATRON to guarantee COMPANION's safety.

d. Verify that a licensed placement company has performed the same due diligence on COMPANION.

**COMPANION's Duties and Responsibilities**

2\. COMPANION will

a. Perform all services required to fulfill the requirements of Exhibit A for the duration of the term defined in this Agreement;

b. Hold as confidential any sensitive or proprietary information provided by the PATRON to the COMPANION in the course of the COMPANION's duties...

Exhibit A

COMPANION may be required to perform any or all of the following services to ensure the PATRON's comfort, including services not explicitly mentioned in this Agreement unless providing those services would cause the COMPANION egregious mental or physical harm.

  * Cleaning the PATRON's domicile;
  * Cooking meals for the PATRON;
  * Performing sexual or non-sexual acts of comfort requested by the PATRON or required in order to benefit the PATRON's mental or physical health;
  * Escorting the PATRON to social events...



* * *

That afternoon Max and Isobel drove out to the cabin to pick up Michael’s truck and some clothes, leaving Michael to fidget and look at his phone, wishing that he could talk to Alex again. If the company hadn’t locked down his phone, he might have succumbed to temptation, just to hear his voice again and know that he was safe.

Max and Isobel also planned to buy a couple of pre-paid phones, since Solon monitored Michael’s more than he’d realized. They probably had a GPS record of everywhere he’d been since the first time he turned it on, which unsettled the hell out of him. If the Solon Companion Company led to Dorsey, and Dorsey was close with Jesse, then Jesse might have that information too.

With nothing concrete to do and nowhere to go, Michael was ready to climb the walls by the time Max and Isobel got back.

“Here you go.”

Michael caught the keys that Max tossed at him. “Was Alex there?”

“No,” Isobel said. “It’s for the best. If Jesse knows you’re connected to us, he might be looking out for us.”

“What about my new phone?” Michael asked.

Isobel passed it over to him. “We already activated it. You can’t use it to call Alex.”

“What? Why not?”

“Solon or Jesse will notice if Alex starts getting texts or calls from an unknown number.”

“You think they’re watching him that closely?”

“Do you want to risk it?” 

Michael’s hand began to hurt from his tight grip on the keys. He shoved them into his pocket and forced his fingers to unwrap. “What are we supposed to do? Sit here and wait for Jesse to make his next move? We should tell Alex what we figured out about Dorsey.”

“Not yet,” Isobel insisted. “We don’t have any proof, just a lot of assumptions.”

“Iz--”

“She’s right,” Max said. “It’s not worth it, if the Company catches you trying to communicate with Alex. They might even keep an eye out for our numbers.”

“We have to have some way to get in touch with him in an emergency.”

“Go through someone else,” Max suggested. “Someone who already has a reason to contact Alex.”

“What about Rosa?” Michael said. “Her or Maria. They’ve been friends with Alex a long time.”

“Two of my very favorite people,” Isobel sighed.

“And what are we supposed to tell her?” Max waited for the question to sink in. “That we need her help undermining a secret government conspiracy that targets the aliens who crashed here in ‘47?”

“She’d probably be into that,” Michael said. He appreciated Rosa’s cheerfully anti-authoritarian streak. “But the chance to screw over Jesse Manes should be enough.”

*

“What the hell is going on with you and Alex?”

“Excuse me?” Michael retorted, taking a seat. He’d arranged to meet Rosa at a coffee shop several blocks away from the Emporium, and she was already halfway through her drink.

“Michael, come on. People are talking.”

“About what?”

“Depends who you ask. Hank Gibbons is running around town saying you did something to Alex and got arrested.”

Michael stiffened in his chair. “That’s not what happened.”

“Obviously,” Rosa said. “So…”

“Someone filed a complaint against me for abusing Alex. Ten bucks says it’s Jesse Manes.”

“Hijo de puta.” Rosa looked mad enough to spit glass. “Why can’t he leave Alex alone? Liz and Maria and I used to worry that Jesse would really hurt him. Beat the shit out of him, break his fingers so he couldn’t play music anymore. It was almost a relief when he went into the Air Force, because at least he was safe.”

“Why the hell didn’t anyone do anything?” Michael said, suddenly just as angry. “Alex’s teachers, the high school counselors, the fucking sheriff who was his dad’s best friend? He was just a kid.”

“Alex hid it well,” Rosa said. “And Sheriff Valenti...he had other things going on.”

“Things more important than a kid being abused by his father?”

Rosa pressed her lips together, trying to stifle whatever expression had almost crossed her face. “I guess having an affair with my mother took most of his attention.”

“Wait. Valenti was your dad?” Michael hadn’t spent much time thinking about Jim Valenti since he and Alex had found the shard hidden in the room under the cabin.

“Yeah.” She fiddled with an empty and torn sugar packet. “After I found out, I went to talk to him. It was--so weird. I didn’t want him to be my dad, ‘cause I already had a dad. Maybe I needed him to know that I knew the truth.”

“What did he do?”

“He tried to be cool about it. And totally failed. I guess he knew from the beginning and had always hated that my mom kept it secret. But there was my father, and Liz, and Sheriff Valenti, and Kyle.”

“You’re Kyle’s half-sister,” Michael said, belatedly putting it together. “Does he know?”

“Not unless his mom told him. His dad died in 2014, and he never said anything about it to Kyle.” Rosa sighed and abandoned the crumpled sugar packet. “It was really important to him that he was Mr. Perfect Dad.”

“I still don’t get how he could just let Jesse abuse Alex. I don’t care if he was that psycho’s best friend.” Michael almost couldn’t bear to think about Alex, ten or twelve or fifteen years old, living under Jesse Manes’ rule.

“They weren’t that friendly by the time he died,” Rosa said.

“They have some kind of fight?”

“I don’t know. But Jim--he had a brain tumor. I only saw him once after he got really sick. He was delirious, talking about weird shit like aliens and conspiracies, something about handprints and Jesse Manes.” While Michael tried to process the fact that Jim Valenti knew about aliens, Rosa drained her cup. “He was nice to me, though. Helped me detox once, after I got out of high school.”

“He sent you to rehab?” Michael asked.

“No, we didn’t have the money for real rehab, so he and my mom worked out this plan. She told my dad I was visiting her, but I was actually in this room under Jim’s hunting cabin.”

Michael blinked. “You detoxed in the creepy murder bunker?”

“You know about the bunker?” Rosa picked up on the rest of the sentence a second later. “Wait, it’s not a murder bunker!”

“Let’s stop saying ‘murder bunker’ so loud,” Michael suggested after a person sitting two tables away gave them a confused look. “Alex and I found it. He literally tripped over the door. I guess that explains the bed and the--no, it doesn’t explain the toys.”

“Jim said it was stuff he wished he could have given me when I was growing up.”

“That’s fucking sad,” Michael said. Alex would have been better off without his father, while Rosa had two men who’d loved her that much. “You should tell Kyle. That Valenti was your father. That makes him your family.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Rosa said sharply. “But I’ll think about it. Now tell me what I can do to help you and Alex.”

*

Michael’s cabin fever got worse every day. Max had his newspaper job, and Isobel was busy putting the finishing touches on the UFO Emporium’s grand reopening. He’d heard her talking about caterers and dancing and floor-length gowns, and except for the full bar, it sounded boring as hell. He didn’t need to be there while the residents of Roswell mocked the possibility of his existence or ate crab puffs over wreckage from the crash.

Isobel was still interrogating socialites when she got the chance, and Max was searching for former Dorsey staffers who knew enough to incriminate him and were willing to break their NDAs. Michael had yet to find anything useful he could contribute. Not only could he not go back to Alex, he couldn’t get within a hundred yards of him. Or the Emporium. Or either of the Greens. He couldn’t even follow Jesse around, since Alex was probably doing the same thing.

Michael had never felt overly constrained by laws and rules, but he took the Company rep’s threat seriously. Even if the investigation eventually cleared him, he could go to prison for violating the restraining order. He had Rosa in his back pocket in case he urgently needed to pass anything on to Alex, but they could only get away with that once or twice before Solon figured out what was going on.

He missed Alex like a hole in his heart, but he also missed the cabin and the mundane activity of their daily lives. Cooking meals, running errands, helping Alex with PT, repairing stuff around the cabin.

At least he had his truck back. The brakes had started squealing, and he’d been meaning to check the pads. Some of his tools had been left at the bunkhouse, but he only needed a flashlight to take a quick look, figure out whether he’d need to take the wheels off, and there was a small one in the truck’s tool box. It would occupy his hands and mind for a few minutes.

Michael balanced the toolbox on top of the tailgate where it met the side panel. He opened it and started digging through the trays, but no sign of the flashlight. It had to be at the bottom with the heavier stuff. Hammer, wrench, a couple of big screwdrivers--and there was a small flashlight shoved into a corner.

As he pulled it out, he bumped one of the trays, and something immediately caught his attention. It took him a second to identify what the problem was, but he’d had this tool box for almost ten years. He knew what he kept in it. And he had not put that pair of wire cutters inside.

The snippets of stripped wire, hidden below a box of drill bits, didn’t belong either. He emptied the contents of the tool box into the truck bed and went carefully through them, but he didn’t find anything else unusual.

The truck had sat unattended at the cabin the day after he’d been taken away by the Company--but also on several days when they took Alex’s Jeep into town. Let alone the times it had been parked outside the Emporium or the Pony or the grocery store. It would have been easy to plant items in the toolbox.

And then it occurred to Michael: if someone had planted evidence in his toolbox, why not other places?

Michael ran his fingers along the sides of the truck bed, searching for anything that could have been slipped in there. When he shook out the blankets, the only thing that came out was dust. In the cab, he checked the visors, the glove box, the torn spots on the bench seat. It wasn’t until he ran his hand under the seat that he felt something snag on his fingers.

He moved into the sunshine for a closer look, and his fingers sparkled in the light. Glass? Then Michael realized that the swirling feeling in his stomach wasn’t just adrenaline. Those shiny fragments, none bigger than the head of a pin, belonged to a piece of the alien material.

He stuck his hand under the seat again, as far back as he could reach, and found more of the material, including a couple of bigger pieces. Discovering the shard under Alex’s cabin was strange enough. But why plant it in his truck?

He stared, confused, at the glittering glass, enough to cover the palm of his hand.


	19. Chapter 19

Alex stormed Jesse’s office at Walker the morning after Michael was taken from him.

“Why the fuck did you do it?” he demanded. 

Jotting notes while on the landline phone, Jesse glanced up, said, “I’ll have to get back to you,” and hung up. “That kind of language isn’t very professional, son. You’ve picked up bad habits from the company you keep.” 

“You did this.” 

“Close the door.” 

Alex nearly turned to obey, a sucker-punch reaction from his childhood. He ignored it. “I’ll figure out how, but I want you to tell me why. And why now?” 

Jesse got up, closed the door, and then settled at his desk again. “No crutch, I see. Good. You almost can’t tell.” 

Alex knew his father led his anger in another direction but followed anyhow. “Can’t tell what? That I’m crippled?” 

Jesse shrugged. “Medical technology can do amazing things.” 

Nothing stuck to his father. Nothing. Even when he didn’t answer with violence, he brushed aside topics he didn’t want to talk about with indifference or worse, a campaign of gaslighting that denied everyone a voice under his roof except for his own. _What’s really important here?_ he would ask, and show you just how insignificant you were. It was an old, ugly hole to fall down, one he’d avoided for years by avoiding the man. 

But last night, after Michael was escorted out of the cabin and driven off into the dark, Alex had locked the door. He’d leaned forward onto his crutches and hung there, in poor form, staring at the empty room. A half-eaten bowl of cereal was on the table next to an empty glass and Alex had imagined it, Michael wandering out from bed, thirsty after sex so he poured himself some water and then grabbed a snack. He ate generic super-sweet cereal because he actually liked it. Cheap cereal, dusty old cabin, and a quiet domesticity ripped apart because why? Who would care? And Alex had known exactly who would do this. 

So many times Jesse had wronged him and he took it, but stealing Michael from their home reached a limit Alex never knew he had. He shouldn’t have let anger cloud his judgment. He should have made a plan, because now he was thrust into a repeat of a childhood trial, called on the carpet in his father’s office. 

Alex pushed aside his doubt and resolved to ignore Jesse’s diversion. “I just don’t get why you bothered in the first place, getting me a Companion. You hated the concept of them when we were kids, but soon as I landed on U.S. soil, you showed up with the Companion contract. I mean, your motivation was obvious, with all the young women to pick from, but c’mon. You hate that I’m gay, but you aren’t stupid. Did you think you could cure me with a pretty Companion?”

“Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

“Nope.” That sounded like Michael. “I just want to know why.”

Jesse leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded. “Associating with Guerin does you no favors. He’s nothing but common trash who appeals to your basest nature. Your preoccupation with him has blinded you--”

“I’m _preoccupied_ with the fact that someone came _into my home_ and took him away.”

Jesse lurched forward and slapped the desk. “That’s _payback_ , Alex. You have invaded where you’re not welcome and potentially exposed information you can’t even imagine.”

“You mean aliens?” Alex scoffed, but his guts went cold. He’d counted on his father’s lack of personnel and reluctance to expose Project Shepherd to do anything about the lock-out at the bunker. He was wrong.

“I tried to bring you onboard willingly.”

“With what, enigmatic files and threats?”

“I asked you,” said Jesse. “I asked you after your medal nomination and you said no. I asked you before you transferred to Scott and you said no. I asked you last year, and you choose to deploy to a war zone instead. I gave you another opportunity at the hospital and _you said no_.”

Alex shook his head in disbelief, working through his father’s line of reasoning. “So when you kept pressuring me to take orders _here_ , at Walker Air Force Base, you really meant the secret project you run from an outdated command center under the desert ten miles west of here. To defend against aliens from 1947.”

“I couldn’t tell you anything until you committed.” 

“But you knew I’d never work with you. I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t been injured. I’d still be in Iraq sorting out how the hell that last exercise went fubar.”

“Well son, I didn’t expect you to get on the damn humvee.”

* * *

#### Roswell Daily Record

**Roswell Serviceman Wounded in Iraq Attack**

By Max Evans | November 25, 2017

On November 1, 2017, Roswell native Master Sergeant Jesse Manes got the call that his youngest son was severely injured by an improvised explosive device in Iraq. As soon as Air Force Captain Alex Manes reached American soil, Jesse was on an airplane to Washington, D.C.

Alex suffered a concussion in the blast that also shattered his ankle. After attempting to save the limb, doctors were forced to amputate, changing his life forever. When asked about the experience over the phone from Walter Reed Medical Center, Alex said, “A lot of combat injuries involve brain damage. I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“It’s a terrible injury,” Jesse admitted. He spoke from his suburban family home, having returned to Roswell to prepare for his son’s return. “But he will have the support of his family while he recuperates. I have every faith that he will overcome this setback and return to his duty.” 

A passion for duty and military service defines the Manes family. “My 7th great-grandfather, Harlan Eugene Manes, fought in the Battle of 1812, and the men in my family have served in every war since.” Master Sergeant Jesse Manes himself served in the Gulf War before posting to Walker AFB in Roswell. 

“All my sons serve their country, and they know the risks,” said the Master Sergeant. Lieutenant Clay Manes serves in the Air Force, Petty Officer 3rd Class Gregory Manes served in the Navy, and Sergeant Flint Manes serves in the Army. “I’m proud that Alex is the first of my sons to earn a Purple Heart. As a father, I worry, of course, but when I got the news, I had faith in the strength of a Manes man. The injuries he survived would have killed other men.” 

Asked about his family’s tradition of military service, Alex added, “If there's one thing my father taught me, it's the importance of winning battles."

While it is unclear how Alex will fulfill his family’s legacy as he begins his journey down this divergent path, he will surely approach the greatest battle of his life with the same dedication that he has shown to serving his country.

_Max Evans can be reached at 575-555-7710, ext, 303, or m.evans@rdrnews.com._

* * *

Alex walked to his Jeep, hyper-aware how everything was sharp, buzzing, saturated. He sat behind the wheel, door closed and engine off until he had to start the engine or get out or suffocate in the heat.

He started the engine.

Almost a year ago, he had been assigned to a team to train security forces in Taji, Iraq. He liked the work. He liked his fellow trainers and he liked the people they trained. And one day, his intel promised a clear road and an easy training exercise, so at the last minute he suited up and joined them for maneuvers. It was a sign of goodwill. He liked these guys. It’d be fun.

He remembered the bang. He remembered the agony when his ankle shattered. He did not remember slamming into the roof, but the doctors said a concussion often came with memory issues.

During the fog right after they abandoned reconstruction of his ankle and decided to amputate his right leg below the knee, he ran through the day of the incident. His intel had been good. The roads had been clear, and yet here he was, responsible for five wounded, his own shattered ankle, and facing a reprimand. A few days later his former CO, Major Allan “OZ” Orozco, visited him before he got shipped out to Landstuhl. “It wasn’t supposed to go down that way,” he said. “It’s fucking bullshit and I’m fixing it, so don’t worry. You just worry about getting better.”

“Fix what?” he’d mumbled, but OZ later denied being there and “Major Orozco” was never logged as one of his visitors, so maybe he dreamed it. And no formal reprimand materialized, only a report of “unavoidable technical failure.” Alex was shipped stateside.

_“Well son, I didn’t expect you to get on the damn humvee.”_

Ten miles north of town, Alex pulled over. He’d driven on autopilot, heading to the cabin. Heading home. He dug his phone out of his pocket and called Michael’s number, but the call didn’t go through, like it wouldn’t go through last night when he tried. Then he flipped over to his texts and found the one from Isobel. He pressed _call_. 

“Hello, this is Isobel Evans.” 

“Is Michael with you?”

“Alex?” she said. In the background Alex heard Michael say, “Is that him? Iz? Give me the phone.”

“Yeah, can I talk to Michael?” A truck thundered past, shaking the car.

“It’s not a good idea,” she said. “Michael can get in a lot of trouble if he’s caught talking to you.”

“Yeah, I know.” He did know. He’d read the fine print. “Just. Just for a minute.” Michael was louder in the background, “Let me have it. Iz. Iz!”

“One minute. Then if you want something, you text me. I don’t want him in any more trouble than he is.”

“Yes, thank you, just, please--”

“Alex!”

“Michael.” The relief was overwhelming and still not enough.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Of course he could hear Alex’s nervous breakdown on the side of the road. He cleared his throat. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m okay, it’s fine, I mean, it’s fucked, but I’m-- Isobel picked me up. We’re driving to her place right now. Where are you?”

“Uh, I’m somewhere on 285.”

“What?”

“I, uh,” he took a shuddery breath. “I asked my dad why’d he do it.”

“Did you see him? What’d he say? What’d he do? Did he hurt you?” There was a scuffle, the mouthpiece muffled and Michael said, “Isobel, shut _up_.”

“He--no. He didn’t touch me.” He used the heel of his palm to wipe his eyes clear. “I just had to know you were all right.”

“I’m all right,” said Michael. “I’m not with you, but I’m okay.”

Alex laughed wetly. He sniffed and swallowed and breathed to get himself under control.

“Alex?”

“I’m okay.”

“Isobel is right. I can’t get caught talking to you, and they’re assholes; they’ll probably check her phone but I’ll figure out something, I’ll.” His voice caught.

“Me too.”

There was another scuffle and Isobel said, “We’ll contact you.” The connection closed.

Alex gave himself ten minutes to fall apart sitting in his car on the side of the road, and then he went home.

*

He went deep after speaking with Michael. Deep into the unsorted data found at the Shepherd site, deep into the wilder parts of the dark web, and deep into every detail of Jesse’s movements through his cell phone with the skills he learned from Naveed. He hated that the pieces of the puzzle wouldn’t come together and tell him Jesse’s plans. He knew there was structure to what his father was doing and he knew he saw only fragments of the big picture. The text he received from Solon Companion Company broke his concentration: "The investigation is ongoing. Click here for more details." The link led him to a notification on his online account with SCC that told him nothing he didn’t already know. He worked through the frustration, choking down food and coffee and water as he continued the investigation.

The work paid off, but it also cost him the entire day and into the next morning.

At ten in the morning on Tuesday, after tracking Jesse from his house to Walker, he laid his head down on his folded arms at the table like he had on his middle-school desk to escape history, and he drifted off long enough to wade through a shallow dream in which his grandfather steadied a rowboat at the side of a dock, waiting for Alex and his brothers to climb in.

His phone pinged.

> Maria: I heard the rumor about your companion. Are you okay?

He pressed dial, and when she answered, he asked, “What rumor?”

“Alex? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. What rumor?” 

“Hank said he heard Michael had been arrested for assault. I wouldn’t pay attention to his nonsense but I watched him get hauled off to the drunk tank so he heard _something_ while he was there,” she explained. “Alex, what happened?” 

He couldn’t tell Maria about Project Shepherd or how Michael and the Evans were aliens, and she knew Jesse Manes was a terrible father for as long as she’d known Alex, so he told her the truth that he could: Jesse had falsified an abuse charge against Michael because his bigotry had only grown in the past ten years. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“No,” he said. “No, wait, yes--shut down that rumor. There were no charges filed and there won’t be. This is bureaucratic bullshit caused by my dad, and no one should think Michael could ever do anything like that.”

“Tell people your dad did this?”

“Tell them that Jesse Manes made a false accusation to get my Companion in trouble? Yes.” 

“Are you sure?” Maria’s voice was small.

“Absolutely.”

“You never called your dad out before.”

In Alex’s sophomore year of high school, after he showed up to class wearing a wrist guard to cover bruises the same size and shape of his father’s hand, Liz had puffed up in rage on his behalf. “Tell someone!” she demanded, and he replied, “I have a plan.” He hadn’t had a plan, but he had no intention of explaining to Liz the futility of reporting Master Sergeant Manes to anyone. He was scared of Jesse’s reaction, and he knew no one could protect him, but he managed, and then he surprised everyone by enlisting. Problem solved. He had become an independent adult and there was no longer a need to tell anyone how his father used to beat him, belittle him, terrorize him, hate him, and though he’d confided in Maria and Liz, he’d never denounced his father publicly.

“Oh, it’s past time I did.”

“You do what you have to,” Maria said, “because I know you won’t let me help you. Just promise you’ll check in, okay?”

She was correct, of course. He wouldn’t ask for help because he didn’t want her anywhere near Jesse’s machinations, but he promised to check in. Then he hung up, opened his laptop, and organized the breadcrumbs of information about his father. Three things leapt out at him:

One: Jesse Manes funded Project Shepherd with his own money, but the amount of money he spent did not cover how much he got done--and it was nearly gone.

Two: Last week, a cell phone associated with Jesse’s other burner phones listed the owner as Michael Guerin.

Three: With genuine alien data as bait, Alex’s phishing attempts in the most paranoid of alien forums on the dark web finally paid off, and he broke through the dead end he’d met every time he reached anything labeled _Manes_. He dismissed the rumors of torture and wrongful imprisonment because rumors were useless without factual support, but he did land a location with a name he’d encountered before without context: Caulfield.

*

The trip to Caulfield took Alex to the southeast corner of the state on a long, hot, boring drive through a hundred miles of yucca, mesquite, and desert grasslands. Half an hour south of Roswell he turned on the radio but turned it off after a few minutes because it spoiled his concentration. Usually he planned things before taking action, but this time he planned as he drove with only the car noise to keep him company.

The drives to Albuquerque always flew by.

He had an appointment to see the prosthetist coming up in a few weeks, a six-month evaluation at the beginning of August. The fit of his leg was looser now than it was even a month ago. There would be adjustments. Michael would insist on taking the truck, Alex would again win the argument because his car had air conditioning, and Michael would drive back whether or not he drove up because Alex would want to practice driving with the new fit, but on shorter rides. He’d let Alex pick the music, if Michael was around in August.

Until Solon Companion Company concluded its investigation, Michael was not Alex’s Companion.

Would Michael stick around without a contract? Alex knew Michael cared about him, but caring about someone didn’t mean sticking around or else Alex would have stayed in Roswell with his friends. _It’s not the same thing_ , he thought. Michael would stay in Roswell for Isobel and Max, but would he return to the cabin? Alex didn’t like where that train of thought was going. God, he’d be happy to go on a road trip to Albuquerque in August, air-conditioned or not, if it was with Michael.

Not that the truck was at the cabin anymore. Alex got a text from Isobel Monday afternoon confirming she and her brother Max had picked it up. At least Michael had wheels. He hadn’t checked, but he hoped they grabbed some clothes for Michael. Fuck the company goon who wouldn’t let Michael get dressed before forcing him out into the night.

His imagination ran along another swell of anger. He gave up his plan to make a plan while driving, but he decided he didn’t need one because he wasn’t going to storm the castle. This was a reconnaissance mission to find out what brought Jesse to the back of nowhere once a month.

The city of Carlsbad broke up the snarl of his thoughts along with the monotony of the desert landscape before his GPS sent him off the highway and into rural desert on two-lane roads. Satellite thermal images suggested he would find an abandoned building. Reports and data from Project Shepherd documented research and containment. His approach to the site gave no clear confirmation either way.

The building was a sprawling prison complex with broken windows on a plot choked by weeds. No vehicles were in sight except an abandoned jeep and an old bus, but as he got nearer, a faint whine increased to a hum of high voltage electricity. Not for the fence--the gate was wide open, and the razor wire on top was littered with old grocery bags--but something in the building required power. A lot of power.

The weathered wood, pitted metal, and thick glass of the front door were solid and solidly locked. The room inside was barren and grungy. Knocking was pointless. Alex found a security cam, small and sleek, in the wall to his right. Below it was a card-sized plate, worn brighter in the middle, most likely from the friction of key cards or fobs. He pulled out his military I.D., held it up in front of the lens, and waited.

It was a long shot. It paid off.

A woman wearing the black uniform and bland expression of general private security approached the door. Her hand dropped to her weapon as she pressed a button on her side. Her voice came from a speaker buried under the camera. “You are not authorized to be here. Please leave the premises, sir.”

“I’m here to look at network security. The Master Sergeant sent me to--”

“I know who you are. Unless you can produce orders, you’ll have to leave.” Her glare held more authority than he expected as he stared back. She was younger than him, petite, and under a black hat, her dark hair was bound in a sizable bun at her nape: an unusual candidate for the uniform. She was also wiry, armed, and not giving an inch. “Now, sir.”

Alex tried to pierce the depths of the space behind her, squinting against the glare on the glass, and saw an empty hall, no furniture, but two doors, dull and heavy, each windowed with a small square of reinforced glass.

“ _Now_ , sir.” She released the strap over her weapon and slid her hand around the grip.

He couldn’t storm the place now, but if he had to, he could break in later. Alex left.

When he finally pulled up to the cabin, the bunkhouse door was wide open.

Alex drew his weapon before he exited the car. He had little chance to surprise anyone, having driven in on gravel, so he entered the bunkhouse without hesitation and cleared the room with a glance. He ignored the mess and checked the perimeter outside. There were no obvious signs of a hasty retreat out into the fields beyond, but the cabin’s back door was open a crack. After he cleared the cabin he holstered his weapon and took out his phone to call Michael.

He texted Maria instead and stared at the message until the dots flashed, stopped, flashed again, and finally the answer came through: _Isobel said he’s annoying so I guess thats good_ Alex put his hand over his mouth, determined not to shout the roof down in frustration. The dots rippled again: _whats going on?_

_Long story tell u later thx_

Michael was safe. For now. Alex pocketed his cell and surveyed the damage.

The cabin was a disaster. Whoever broke in had been thorough in their search and thoroughly indifferent to the damage in their wake.

Alex’s computers had not been taken, or his guitar, which were the most expensive and pawnable items in the cabin. Police would be no help here. The intruder was not a common thief; they had been looking for a specific item. The box where Alex kept the Shepherd flash drives had tumbled off the shelf and one drive was on the floor next to it, the others inside. The only other item of interest in the cabin was the shard.

In the bunkhouse Michael’s clothes had been flung on the floor and Alex’s totes had been tipped over. The small table Michael worked at was upside-down, broken glass and machine bits scattered about. None of the glass was from the shard--even shattered, the material would have been distinctive--so Alex began putting things away as he searched. Then he worked his way through the cabin.

Eleven o’clock came and went before Alex finished. He was limping badly, but everything was accounted for, broken or not--except the shard.

Alex drowsed in bed Thursday morning until noon and when he got up, he decided he could chase people without leaving his wheelchair. He started by looking at the data returned on Jesse’s official phone, tunnelled out of the NSA site in Utah. The GPS history showed the visits going back as long as he owned that phone, over four years now. Like clockwork, once a month, Jesse visited Caulfield. Alex turned to the glut of unsorted files from the Project Shepherd bunker and searched for anything related to Caulfield.

With each new datapoint he found, Caulfield bothered him more. The layout of the building indicated a prison. It matched what he saw of the structure from the outside. The specs of the cells indicated monstrously strong and deadly infectious prisoners, with bulletproof glass and sealed doors. A complex containment system was in place and still functioning, which would explain the high voltage power he heard pouring in. He knew some aliens had survived the crash, and they had been studied and abused for years, but could they have survived until today? As of January 2017, there were nine “specimens” held in a facility built to hold eighty adult convicts, but could that refer to actual aliens?

Nine specimens. 1947. Alex referred to a conversation between Jesse and an unidentified man who held authority over him. _Stasis chambers_ , he’d said. Terabytes of new tech R&D had come out of Caulfield. Maybe the specimens were...flying saucers?

He laughed at himself in the silence. Poking around Caulfield got him no closer to discovering Jesse’s motivation to set Alex up for blackmail, for taking Michael away from him, for stealing the alien shard. God, how was it Jesse knew when to strike? The camera feed Alex had found at the bunker showed the private road leading to the cabin, but that would indicate only when Alex’s Jeep or Michael’s truck left or returned. The angle was so low that the driver or passenger couldn't be seen. And yet Jesse knew when Alex was alone, or gone, or when he was there with Michael, but vulnerable. Alex had combed through the cabin several times for surveillance of any kind and found nothing, so either Jesse had not placed equipment inside or Alex couldn’t detect it. Considering the state of security at the bunker west of town, Jesse used standard equipment at best.

And yet Jesse made regular trips to a facility known for research and development of alien technology.

God _damn_ it.

Alex wheeled away from the table and into the living room, standing to reach the box where he kept the flash drives Jesse had given him months earlier. He plopped back into the chair and fished one from the kind of junk found in a desk drawer he used to camouflage the drives’ importance.

It was heavier in the hand than it should be, and bigger than standard drives. He dug out the other two and moved impatiently back to the kitchen where he took out a paring knife and a paper towel before rolling up to the table again. Laying out the drives on the white paper towel, he picked one up and slid the knife along the plastic seam on the side, wiggling the blade until the plastic snapped apart. Mass storage controller, flash memory chip, crystal oscillator: standard stuff, but the memory chip was thick. When he had first examined it, months ago, he had assumed the bulk was to accommodate a terabyte and advanced security.

He pried up the chip, held it close, rubbed it between his fingers. The sides were made of different materials and a seam, barely detectable, separated them along the edge. Frowning, he laid it on the paper towel, reversed the knife in his hand, and drove the handle down, hard.

The chip snapped. A shine of colorful stars glowed through the cracks from a piece of alien glass an inch long, no wider than his pinkie, and thin as a fingernail.

* * *

FROM: naveednotdavid@protonmail.com  
TO: 7intheafternoon@yahoo.com  
Mon, Apr 18 at 9:16 PM  
SUBJECT: Returning the favor  
_________________________

As requested: hardware and a transcript.

https://file.io/U9xdrvak9x2V  
https://file.io/cT6V62oOKOLN 

Always a delight.

N.

**TRANSCRIPT**  
**December 15, 2017**

**MAN 1:** I wasn’t expecting a call from you.

 **MAN 2:** I have new leads.

 **MAN 1:** Random blown transformers and a nine-year-old case of hysterical delusion in a group of teenagers do not merit the cost of keeping the lights on at Roswell.

[traffic noise] 

**MAN 2:** The Green twins have acquired debris from the crash.

 **MAN 1:** They were bound to get lucky eventually. I have no doubt whatsoever that there are chunks of flying saucer in half the attics of Roswell, but their relative worth doesn’t compare to the research we’ve already done, so why expend the manpower?

 **MAN 2:** You’re not concerned about exposure from their Emporium?

 **MAN 1:** No one has ever taken that dump seriously, and they’re not going to start now just because the Greens managed to find better special effects for their junk. They could put an alien in the front booth to sell tickets and the public would never know.

 **MAN 2:** And there’s the danger. These creatures can insinuate themselves anywhere.

 **MAN 1:** Not unless you find another one of their stasis chambers gathering dust for the past seventy years.

 **MAN 2:** There remains the strong possibility that survivors escaped and reproduced, blending in with--

 **MAN 1:** This isn’t the AATIP. I don’t fund possibilities, Master Sergeant. I fund results.

[traffic noise]

 **MAN 2:** My youngest is coming on board once he recovers. I secured authorization for a temporary duty assignment and funnelled it the usual way to place him in Roswell. He’s got the skill set we need to update operations, and it won’t affect the books.

 **MAN 1:** I’m sorry about your boy. I’m glad he’s joining the team, but it’s a shame what happened. I trust he’s getting full satisfaction from his Companion?

[traffic noise] 

**MAN 2:** [inaudible 00:05] 

**MAN 1** What’s that? 

**MAN 2** He’s doing as well as can be expected.

 **MAN 1:** I’m glad to hear it. But as for the Shepherd base in Roswell, my decision stands. I’m pulling the plug.

 **MAN 2:** Sir--

 **MAN 1:** It’s not a hard shutdown. You’ve got until the end of the fiscal year before the utilities shut off. This is an opportunity! You can finally take a more hands-on approach at Caulfield.

 **MAN 2:** There’ll be pushback.

 **MAN 1** As long as the revenue continues, no one is about to complain. Even when the subjects run out, the research will keep you busy until retirement.

 **MAN 2:** Thank you.

 **MAN 1:** You get me something more than crumbs and rumors and it’s a different story. My best to your boy.


	20. Chapter 20

Michael refused to tell Isobel what he needed to talk about until Max arrived, and she retaliated by refusing to share the guacamole she’d brought home.

She waved a tortilla chip around, using it to punctuate her point. “Saying you have something important to show me and then not showing it to me is unfair. Next time, keep it a secret.”

“And tell you what? That Max has to come over because we need a third person for checkers?” Michael made a grab for the chip bag, but Isobel snatched it away as Max walked in the door. Max immediately swiped the bag from Isobel and tossed it to Michael.

“I think I liked it better when you two weren’t teaming up to torment me,” Isobel said.

“Get used to it,” Max said, smiling at Michael above Isobel’s head. A pang of nostalgia hit him, if you could feel nostalgic for something you never had. Maybe this was what it was like, having siblings. If they’d grown up together, teasing each other, driving each other crazy, supporting each other through heartaches and disappointments, maybe it would have felt like this.

“I thought you had something important to talk about, but if you two boys would rather amuse yourselves…”

“Someone planted stuff in my truck,” Michael said.

“What stuff?" Max asked. “Drugs?”

“Not exactly.” Michael pulled the fragments out of his pocket, wrapped in the layers of kleenex he’d folded around them. “Pieces of that alien material.”

Isobel popped out of her chair and joined Max in crowding around Michael. She reached down to move the fragments around with her finger. “And you’re sure they weren’t there before?”

“No way,” Michael said. “I know exactly how many shards I’ve seen and where they all are. I didn’t forget dropping and breaking one.”

Max took one of the larger pieces and held it to the light, then brought it to his eye like it was a kaleidoscope. Michael wondered what secrets he expected to find. “What can you even do with pieces this small?”

“I’ve got no idea. And that wasn’t all. There were wire cutters and wires in my toolbox.”

“Do you think this is Jesse again?” Isobel plopped back down into her chair and stuck a finger into the guacamole, then sucked it clean.

“You’re disgusting,” Michael said. “I thought you had rich parents who taught you better. Anyone could have gotten to my truck, but I don’t know who else would have a reason.”

“But how can you know for sure without knowing why the stuff is there?” Max asked, settling in next to Isobel.

“You plant evidence because you want to pin something on someone,” Isobel mused. “A crime.”

“Jesse already got me suspended. You think he wants to send me to jail?”

Max shook his head, not in negation but in confusion. “The only other place those shards exist is at the Emporium.”

“Could he be trying to frame you for stealing from the Emporium?” Isobel asked.

“Maybe,” Michael said dubiously. “He’d need the Greens to support that, and I don’t think they’d do that unless something was actually missing.”

“Are you sure all of the shards are still at the Emporium?” Max asked him.

“How can I be sure? I can’t fucking go there.” Then it occurred to him--technically, he could. He just couldn’t be seen or caught.

“We don’t even know if he’s trying to frame you for something that’s already happened or something in the future,” Isobel said.

“Am I supposed to sit here and wait until sheriff’s deputies come after me again, this time to arrest me?”

“I don’t know,” Max said. “I’m not sure how much the three of us can do about Jesse Manes. We should keep focusing on Dorsey and let Alex worry about his father.”

Easy for Max to say, but Michael had no intention of waiting for things to happen, not when he had any other option. And he knew who to call for help.

*

In Rosa’s room above the Crashdown, Michael got as far as “Do you want to help me break into--” before Rosa cut him off.

“Hell, yes.” She sat cross-legged on her bed, and Michael didn’t want to loom over her, so he slid down against the closed door to sit on the floor. The room was close and surprisingly quiet, with only the occasional clink of silverware and dishes drifting up from the Crashdown’s late-morning crowd.

“You don’t have to work?”

“Not until six.”

“You sure?” Michael pushed. “Are you on probation or anything?”

“No, I’m clear. And you don’t plan to get caught, do you?”

“I actually don’t need you to do anything illegal,” Michael said, “just keep a lookout for me.”

Rosa contorted herself into an exaggerated frown. “So you get to do the fun part while I sit outside like some perro callejero?”

“Pretty sure that if I got you arrested, Alex would be really pissed and your father would cut off my enchilada supply.”

She muttered a few more words in Spanish that flew past him, but they didn’t sound flattering. “Fine. But you owe me after this. I don’t care if you are tragically separated from your true love.”

Michael elected to let that pass without comment. “Are you gonna ask where I’m breaking into?”

“Sure,” Rosa humored him. “Where are you breaking into?”

“The Emporium.”

“Uh-huh.” Rosa let that sit for a second while she used a marker to color the sketch she was working on, sharp lines slashing across the heavy paper. “I don’t want to accidentally give you good advice, but why are you asking about my record? You’re not supposed to go anywhere near that place.”

“Are you helping me or not? Make up your mind.” Michael ignored her glare. “Besides, it’s July 4th. No one will be there, and most people will be off grilling and setting things on fire with their families.”

“Okay, it’s your funeral.” She grinned at him before capping the marker and tossing it and the sketchbook aside.

“Not helpful, Ortecho.”

*

The Emporium was not the first building Michael had broken into. Half the battle was projecting an air of confidence, as if you had every right to be where you were and do what you were doing.

“Is the other half ‘not getting caught’? That’s what they say on TV.”

Michael continued making his way along the side of the building, dodging the planks of wood and pieces of old exhibits temporarily stored out there. “Starting to feel like asking for your help was a bad idea.”

“Come on,” Rosa needled him. “Who else would you ask? Max is too law-abiding and Isobel’s too nosy. Don’t you have a key to this place, by the way?”

“I’ve got a key for the front door, but it’s chained shut overnight and on holidays.”

“Ooh, are you gonna pick the lock?”

“I’ve got two words for you, Rosa. ‘Plausible deniability.’”

The back of the building was nondescript, with a security camera mounted on a light pole and pointed at the back door. Michael surreptitiously nudged it with his mind, just enough that he could sneak past its field of view. If Rosa noticed the camera’s presence, she didn’t say anything.

The alarm system was the other impediment. Fortunately, Grant Green was nothing if not predictable. Michael had never deliberately snooped through his office, but Grant had called him in several times to discuss some task he wanted Michael to do. And Michael would bet that one of the three sticky notes he’d seen clinging to the side of Grant’s computer monitor contained the alarm code. Michael always did have a good memory for numbers.

“Don’t make yourself obvious,” he advised Rosa. “But try to not to look like you’re standing around doing nothing.”

Rosa pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “I’ve got a great reason for standing around doing nothing.” She moved to the corner of the building where she could keep an eye on the street running in front of the Emporium.

The lock on the back door was a joke. Michael concentrated for a moment, feeling his way through the pins and springs until the lock rotated and the door opened. He figured he had three tries at the alarm code and got it on the second. The beeping from the alarm pad stopped, and he let the door swing shut.

The dimly lit back hallway led to one of the smaller exhibition rooms, its cases filled with items that had supposedly been implanted in abductees or recovered from purported crashes all over the Southwest. He took a moment to remember where the cameras were in each of the rooms and adjusted a few that had a chance of spotting him.

Using his telekinesis to mess with security cameras wasn’t the best idea, but Michael figured the chance of Grant and Graham reviewing the security footage was slim, especially since the alarm hadn’t gone off. And if they did notice a brief period of time when the cameras were moved, they had no reason to connect it to him.

He headed to the room where the shards were displayed, but as soon as he saw the cabinet, it was obvious that nothing was missing from the velvety black fabric covering the shelves. So much for the theory that Jesse had stolen one and planted fragments of it in his truck. Since he was in the building, Michael decided to make a quick search of Grant and Graham’s offices, though unsure what useful information he might find. 

Graham’s office was adjacent to the gift shop and, as Michael expected, in near-perfect order. His desk contained his computer and peripherals, a few files stacked neatly on the desk, three pens precisely aligned. Michael rifled through the contents of the desk drawers, then used his mind to open the locked file cabinet along the back wall. Invoices, permits, property tax statements, insurance policies, old payroll records. Inconveniently, he didn’t find anything labeled “CONSPIRACY DETAILS” or “REASONS TO FRAME MICHAEL.” At a loss, he took a last look around in case anything jumped out at him, then abandoned the search and headed for Grant’s office.

Cheap metal bookcases lined three walls, overflowing with boxes and stacks of paper, with Grant’s desk centered in the chaos. He had as little chance of finding anything here as he had in Graham’s office, for the opposite reason. Michael didn’t have hours to spend combing through decades’ worth of crap ranging from junk to trash.

Even after months of working with Grant and Graham, Michael still wasn’t sure if they truly believed aliens were real. At times he was convinced that the whole UFO Emporium was simply a tourist trap, designed to extract as much money as possible from anyone willing to pay ten dollars to get in the door (and another five for the guided audio tour). The gift store, inescapable if you wanted to exit the building. A separate movie admission. One of those machines that flattened pennies and imprinted them with the Emporium’s logo, a waving little green man.

He...hated this place.

He’d shoved the feeling down whenever it arose, at first too focused on the mystery of his origin and then on Max and Isobel. He’d done his job, helping the Greens with whatever they needed, assembling exhibits, repairing old wiring, installing new fixtures. Now, so close to the reopening gala, everything in the Emporium shined and glittered, designed to pull people in and entertain them. And he hated it. It turned his entire existence into a kitschy joke.

In a fair world, the Emporium would be a memorial to his people.

Roswell would always be the site of his life’s greatest tragedy and simultaneously the only place he’d ever thought of as home. If he was going to stay in Roswell with Max and Isobel--and Alex--he’d have to find a way to reconcile that dichotomy. But he looked forward to the day he could walk away from the Emporium and not look back.

He pulled boxes off the bookshelves one by one, quickly looked through each of them, then replaced them, his motivation fading fast. What had he realistically expected to find? Graham surely maintained the financial records on his computer, and as an investor, Michael had the right to see those whenever he wanted. With the convenient sticky notes, he could log into Grant’s computer, but that was more time than he wanted to spend inside a building he was legally prohibited from entering.

Michael gave up and worked his way back to the abductee room, adjusting cameras as he went. When he was about ten steps from the back door, the light coming from the small inset window suddenly disappeared. He froze, but after a second, he discerned that the obstruction came from the outside, not from another person in the building with him.

The shadow lifted for a moment, and the shape outside resolved into Rosa, leaning back against the door. He crept closer until he heard her talking with another woman.

“I’m not doing anything in particular, Deputy. Just hiding out back here so my father and sister don’t see me smoking. I’ve gotten enough lectures from them.” A female deputy meant Cameron. And any kind of law enforcement was bad news. Even if Cameron sympathized with his situation, she was obligated to report him to Solon if she caught him breaking the terms of the restraining order.

“You don’t think it’s a little weird that you’re standing behind the UFO Emporium?”

“No,” Rosa said. “It smells better than the feed store.”

Cameron didn’t respond immediately, and the pause stretched to an eternity. He wished for Isobel’s power to slip into Cameron’s mind and prod her to move along, return to whatever she was doing before she saw Rosa. She didn’t sound especially suspicious to Michael, but her voice was muffled through the door and he couldn’t see her face.

“Any plans for the holiday?” Cameron asked.

“Working tonight, that’s it. I guess people love their pancakes after they shoot off all the fireworks.”

“Okay,” Cameron said, her voice fading as she walked away. “Stay out of trouble.”

“You bet!” Rosa called after her cheerily.

Michael blew out a shaky exhale and made himself wait a few minutes before cracking the door. “All clear?”

“Yeah. Deputy Barbie came by, but I chased her off.” Rosa dropped her cigarette butt and ground it into the pavement in an ashy streak.

Michael armed the alarm system and let the door shut behind him with a clunk. “It’s 2018, Rosa. Barbie can be whoever she wants.”

“She’s okay,” Rosa conceded. “Most of them are a lot worse.”

“Can you make sure she’s gone?”

Rosa shot him a sardonic look but strolled over to the alley, giving Michael time to lock the door and return the security camera to its original place.

“Did you find anything?” she said as he joined her in the alley. “Not that you told me what you were looking for.”

“Nothing. But I had to do something. I can’t talk to Alex, I can’t go near him, I’m just supposed to wait and let other people decide how my life is gonna go.” Even talking about it set him on edge, enough that he clamped down hard on his powers rather than break some windows. Checking the Emporium was the only idea he’d had, and it was a bust.

It was easy for Max and Isobel to counsel patience. Their whole lives, they’d been part of a system that worked for them and with them. They couldn’t see things from Michael’s perspective. They tried, so hard that the effort was almost visible, but they couldn’t shed the comfort that came from growing up rich and white.

Michael and Rosa walked slowly back to the Crashdown, accompanied by the distant boom of fireworks, even though it wasn’t close to dark yet. He sensed her looking at him a couple of times before she spoke.

“It’ll be okay. Whatever it is.”

He wasn’t in the mood for empty reassurances. “Bullshit. There’s so much going on, Rosa, you have no idea.”

“Maybe. But you don’t have to handle it all by yourself.” Rosa stopped, and when he kept walking, she hurried to catch his arm and slow him down. “I got your back, Guerin. So does Alex, and he might be the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. Maria and Liz would do anything for him, and they know how important you are to him. And you’ve got Max and Isobel, however the hell you’re related to them. I’m not a fan of Isobel Evans, but she gets shit done.”

Easy for her to say it. Not as easy for him to believe it, if he even wanted to. Independence--even isolation--meant he didn’t have to rely on anyone else’s love or protection. But if he was honest, that isolation had been broken long ago. By Alex’s reliance on him. By Max and Isobel’s connection with him. By Rosa’s friendship and support.

And if they were willing to step up and help him, he owed them the chance to do it. He’d never liked owing anybody, but maybe that was family. Giving and taking until you stopped keeping score.

“Thanks,” he said to Rosa.

A genuine smile crossed her face until she smothered it under sarcasm. “But I’m not doing anything for Isobel, so don’t ask.”

*

“I still think I should come,” Michael said.

“And I still think that’s a terrible idea.” Isobel hung a garment bag on her closet door and unzipped it, revealing sparkling, multi-colored fabric. “I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow dealing with the gala. I have to get the catering and the decorations set up, and Senator Dorsey’s security guard--person--whatever--insists on checking out the whole building before he arrives. And you are not allowed anywhere near the Emporium.”

“I could just be there, or near there, in case anything happened.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know? That’s the point I’m making, Isobel.” His sense of uselessness had only increased since the previous day’s unproductive visit to the Emporium. It had been five days since his removal from the cabin and Alex. The anger and frustration inside him had built into a clawing black need--to fight back, to run for it, _anything._

“It’s not safe.”

Michael sagged down into the massive nest of pillows on Isobel’s bed. “I’m spinning my wheels here while you and Max and Alex do all the work. I hate it.”

Isobel let the fabric slip from her fingers and came to sit next to Michael on the edge of the bed. “We’re making progress, I promise. You have to be patient.”

He laughed, more breath than sound. “I know you haven’t known me that long, but I’m really bad at that.”

“I think I’d figured it out,” Isobel said, running her fingers through Michael’s hair and letting them come to rest on the back of his neck. “There has to be something else you can do tomorrow that doesn’t involve the Emporium.”

“I could go out to Foster Ranch and look at the crash site, I guess.” Between what he’d seen at the Emporium, and what Alex had shown him of the Project Shepherd files, he thought he knew where to look for undiscovered pieces of the craft.

“You could visit the pods, while you’re out that way.”

“Visit them? Are there visiting hours, like at a hospital?”

She tugged on his hair teasingly. “It might make you feel better. Remind you that you’re not alone anymore.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

“So start listening,” she said.

*

The trill of the phone pulled Michael out of his uneasy sleep. He fumbled for it on the nightstand and frowned confusedly at the screen, which stayed dark even as the ring sounded again.

Not his burner phone. His SCC-supplied phone, resting in the nightstand's top drawer. The buzz as it vibrated finally penetrated his sleep-heavy mind, and he pulled the drawer open to grab it.

Unknown number.

"Alex?" he said as soon as he thumbed it open and held it to his ear.

"Guerin." Not Alex, but Jesse Manes' cold tones. Even the silence after his words dripped with frost.

"What the hell do you want?"

"It's not what I want. It's what you want."

Michael checked the time on the burner phone. 3:52 a.m. "It is way too early in the morning for you to pull this clichéd shit on me. I'm hanging up now."

"I’m surprised you aren’t more concerned about Alex's well-being."

Fuck. He’d thought Alex was safe, whatever Jesse’s long-term plans were. "What did you do to him?" Michael spat.

Jesse chuckled—at least, Michael assumed the two puffs of breath were meant to convey amusement. "Nothing yet. And if you want to keep it that way, come to the UFO Emporium."

“Let me talk to Alex!”

“You’ll see him when you get here. Come alone. Don’t bring either of those Evans freaks with you.” The slight background hum cut off as he disconnected the call.

 _Shit._ What should he do? Alex could defend himself, but Manes must have gotten the upper hand somehow. His mind filled with a terrifying image: Alex with his hands tied behind his back, blood dripping down his forehead, stripped of his prosthetic and unable to move.

He toyed with the idea of waking Isobel or calling Max--but they’d try to stop him. He could already hear Max urging caution, wanting to call the police or insisting that he and Isobel come along in some ridiculous attempt at stealth. Maybe Jesse had Alex, maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was stupid of him to charge off on his own. But he knew what Jesse Manes was capable of, and he wasn’t willing to risk Alex’s life on a coin flip.

Michael quickly pulled on the jeans he’d left folded on top of the dresser in the guest room, the neatness a habit from months of living with Alex, and grabbed a clean shirt out of a drawer. He hesitated over the phones. The GPS on the Solon phone would let Jesse track him, and the setting was locked. He could get around it with enough time, but they’d all agreed that it might be useful to have a record of his phone being far away from any of the places Michael was forbidden to visit.

If Isobel woke up in the morning and found him gone, she and Max would worry, and they’d immediately call his burner phone. Michael took the burner, turned it off, and shoved it in his pocket along with his keys. If only he still had the gun he’d kept in his truck for years, but the contract forbade him from owning any weapons, and he’d sold it to Felipe before leaving Amarillo.

On his way out through the living room, he grabbed an empty envelope out of the trash and scribbled a note on it. _Couldn’t sleep, went to see the pods and Foster Ranch. Back later. Have fun at the gala._

*

Michael looked for any sign of sunrise as he approached the Emporium, but the sky was still dark and the streets deserted. No sign of Alex’s Jeep either, though a few vehicles were parked nearby. He sat in the truck for a moment, in the silence that came after he turned off the engine. The whole time, as he drove from Isobel’s, he’d tried to think of a better plan than simply walking into whatever trap Jesse was setting. And he’d come up with nothing.

He considered sneaking in through the back door, the same way he had a couple of days ago, but it didn’t matter which door he used--if there was any chance Jesse had Alex, he couldn’t do anything to piss Jesse off. Front door it was.

Michael pushed open the front door and entered the lobby, a flashlight lighting his way. To his right, the light bounced off the glossy colors of Rosa’s mural. He checked out the other corners of the room but confirmed that the lobby was empty. In front of him, three sets of doors led into the central space that would serve as a ballroom for the gala, with hallways leading out to the various exhibit areas.

As soon as he entered the ballroom, his footsteps echoing hollowly, he saw Jesse. One bank of overhead lights shone down on him where he stood near the stage. Michael clicked off the flashlight and took careful steps towards him.

“Where’s Alex?”

“Did you do as I asked?”

“Yeah, I came alone.”

“Good,” Jesse said. “I didn’t.”

Michael hadn’t even heard anyone approaching, so the gun pressed into his spine came as a shock. He froze and raised his hands--not that anyone had ordered him to, but it seemed like the appropriate response.

“Look,” Michael said, aiming for reasonable. “You’ve got me, for whatever sick reason you wanted. Just let Alex go.”

Jesse began moving toward him, a snake slithering towards a mouse. “When I first saw you, I thought you didn’t look very bright. And nothing that’s happened since has changed my mind.”

“He’s not here, is he.” Michael said.

“Hands in front.” Jesse snapped handcuffs around Michael’s outstretched wrists. “I gave Alex a chance, but he refused to join the cause his family has been dedicated to since 1947. He chose to abandon our world to the alien threat.”

Michael scoffed until the unknown person behind him shoved the gun harder against him, though he was unsure whether he should pretend not to know about aliens. “You’re crazy. You get that, right? Alex is the best person I’ve ever known.”

Handcuffs didn’t worry him. All he needed was a couple of minutes unobserved, and he could use his powers to unlock them, get the hell out of the Emporium, and go find Alex. If Jesse had lured him here to ensure Michael was in the building during the gala, then he had some kind of master plan he was putting into motion, and fuck the restraining order--Michael wasn’t going to leave Alex to face that alone.

“Alex wasn’t satisfied with betraying his family.” Jesse’s bland exterior began to crumble, revealing the poison underneath. “He should have turned you over to Project Shepherd as soon as he found out what you are.”

“Handsome? Charming? Good in the kitchen and great in the bedroom?” Michael tossed out words flippantly, hoping that Jesse wasn’t implying his worst fear.

Jesse stepped close enough for Michael to see flecks of gray in his icy eyes. “I know you’re an alien, Guerin.” With a quick motion, he jabbed a needle into Michael’s upper arm. He waited to feel pain or dizziness, but no symptoms appeared.

“What the hell did you just give me?”

“A useful tool Project Shepherd has developed over the last fifty years. I don’t know what kind of alien abilities you have, but if you were counting on them to get you out of here, you should reconsider.”

Michael didn’t want to use his powers in front of Jesse, but at the threat, he instinctively pushed him away. He squashed the impulse a second later, but it didn’t matter. That shot had taken away his telekinesis. He tried again, grabbing for Jesse or the gun or the handcuffs-- _anything, god, anything_ \--but nothing happened. His powers gone, Alex still in danger, his fear for Max and Isobel’s safety, the upheaval and uncertainty of the past week--everything boiled over inside of him. He swung his cuffed hands at Jesse with all of the strength and surprise he could muster. The hit didn’t land as solidly as a punch would have, but it had enough heft to force Jesse to take a step back.

The shock on Jesse’s face was worth the payback, as the person behind him hooked a leg around him and pulled him off balance, leaving him unprepared for Jesse’s returning backhand. Blood filled his mouth, but Michael only tasted satisfaction.

Jesse smoothed out his expression as he watched Michael weaving on his feet. “You’ve corrupted my son and interfered with my plans. It’s time for you to serve a useful purpose in the fight against your race.”


	21. Chapter 21

Friday. July 6th. The day of the UFO Emporium gala. Alex should have been poking fun at Michael’s idea of formalwear, but five days had passed since Alex saw Michael--or slept through the night. 

Instead, at seven in the morning he had taken possession of the old command center of Project Shepherd. Iced coffee spiked with enough espresso to caffeinate God stood by his elbow, nearly gone. So was half the morning and all his patience.

He was an idiot. 

He was an arrogant, ignorant moron. From the beginning he was told: this is about aliens. And since he rejected anything his father offered, he dismissed the concept that aliens were real, and he dismissed the possibility that alien tech existed even as his father dropped flash drive after flash drive into his hands like unpinned grenades.

Specs for the drives were in the Project Shepherd database. The paring of alien glass wasn’t a standard part of the drive, and the alien glass wasn’t glass but an engineered biological material that somehow incorporated nanotech. Various types of it served various purposes: hull structure was the most abundant and obvious, but other forms glowed or transmitted or exploded--sometimes all at once. Decades of research eventually named the general collection _extraterrestrial organic glass_ which described the material, barely, but never understood any of it, even when Project Shepherd exploited every piece they could. For aircraft. For communications. For weapons.

For surveillance.

An unnamed engineer in 1998 learned how to stabilize the explosive properties enough to build several useful tools, including transmitters no bigger than a fingernail capable of sending intel to a device with the same material. Intel in this case being audio from the same room where the drives were, and calls and texts from cell phones that occurred within ten feet of the device. A controller made with the stuff could appropriate nearby signals--and it was small enough to hide neatly in a cell phone. The devices networked with each other for better coverage. 

He found four external devices networked to access all surveillance feeds inside and outside of the bunker. One of them was Jesse Manes’ oversized Samsung smartphone.

The cabin had no landline or security system to breach, but his and Michael’s calls and texts had been compromised. Their conversations at the table or sitting on the couch weren’t private since the first time Jesse visited. 

And Alex had missed it. Missed it all. 

Mortification knotted his gut. He didn’t know if sound carried from the bedroom into the living room, but he and Michael rarely closed the door. 

Then Alex found the virtual tap on Michael’s Solon cell phone. Not a tap, but an app allowing phone access to the SCC in-house security service that recorded everything the phone had done: calls, texts, browsing, photos, GPS. Alex had known SCC required invasive levels of monitoring on its Companions. He had not known that Project Shepherd--Jesse Manes--had the same access.

Alex poured outrage after outrage on his own head. Jesse was the agent of all this misery but Alex _should have known_. Alex had not been the top of his classes but he was always in the top twenty: smart but invisible. He excelled at coding and the intricacies of cryptology, and better, he employed his skills creatively. He’d earned his rank and his medals and the respect of his CO and the enlisted under his command in all his postings. And yet he was still blind to his own father’s machinations.

He hated and respected that they were so alike.

Motion on the top monitor caught his eye. A truck pulled up to the bunker entrance next to Alex’s Jeep. Flint got out, wearing civilian clothes this time, but still armed with his sidearm in a shoulder holster. Alex inhaled sharply, surprised, and then he grimaced. The surveillance streamed directly to Jesse’s phone. He shouldn't be surprised at all.

Flint marched straight to the door, stooped, and instead of his palm, he placed his phone on the scanner. Before Alex could react, the lock disengaged, the sound echoing on the concrete walls, and Flint disappeared out of the camera view as he entered the bunker.

Alex stood and shoved the chair back to give himself room. He left his crutch leaned under the desk and watched Flint coming down the steps to the main floor. The door boomed shut behind him. 

“Don’t get up on my account.” 

“It’s the polite thing to do.” 

“You’re wondering how I got in.” Flint took the two steps onto the computer area in a quick motion, gracefully, like it was nothing and he knew it was nothing. 

“Apparently your new iPhone.” Filled with bio-mechanical nanotech, he thought, same as the flash drives. It had to be. Alex knew most of what there was to know about security made by humans, but he had not been dealing with human tech from the beginning. 

“I heard about your little field trip to Caulfield. What were you going to do? Wire a few card readers together and walk in the front door?” Flint remained by the steps. He would have to move aside for Alex to leave, and Alex recognized that Flint would not move aside. 

“She actually knew not to let me in.” Flint blazed at that, and Alex continued, “I did knock, unlike you when you broke into my place for a little petty theft. Still running errands for Dad, I see.” 

“I’m doing my duty, unlike you.” 

“So what does he want with a piece of alien junk? There’s tons of it at Caulfield.” 

“You don’t get to ask questions here,” said Flint. “Sit down.” 

“It’s not like he doesn’t drive to Caulfield once a month. He could pick up whatever he needs anytime he wants. Unless my particular fragment is important. I mean, it was hidden in a secure location for years.”

“I don’t have time for this.” Flint approached, reaching into his pocket. “Sit down.” 

Alex sat, rolling the chair closer to the desk. Flint withdrew thick, white zip-ties from his pocket. Alex nudged his crutch with the side of his prosthetic foot, knocking it into his hand. As soon as he had a grip, he launched out of the chair and swung the crutch one-handed, hitting Flint’s upper arm before pulling it back, gripping it with two hands to reverse and shove the cuff into Flint’s chest, forcing him to stumble back a step. 

“You fucker,” Flint managed as Alex adjusted his hold on the crutch, hands together, and swung the end hard against Flint’s ear. Flint’s head snapped to the side and he reeled away, stunned. Alex lunged after him, intent on acquiring Flint’s weapon. He ripped open the strap and pulled it free from the holster, gripping the barrel by the rear sight. Flint caught himself on the railing, bucked, and the gun flew from Alex’s fingers to skitter across the main floor. 

“What don’t you have time for?” Alex demanded, shoving Flint harder against the railing to help steady himself before he stepped back. 

Flint touched his bleeding ear then brushed at the spots on his shirt. A dress shirt, green, and he wore dark gray slacks, dress shoes. Slowly he got to his feet, still leaned against the railing, wary. 

“Tonight’s the gala,” said Alex in epiphany. “Dad doesn’t want me there.” 

“Just sit this one out, Alex,” said Flint. “Save yourself the beating.” 

“Why doesn’t he want me there?” 

“Dad always stayed on the mission, while you,” Flint said, steadier on his feet, “you were off, ignoring your duty. And then you shacked up with your pretty boy at the hunting camp. You and Greg, off doing whatever the fuck you want. At least Clay has a good excuse.” 

“What?” 

“You _never_ understood the importance of what he does.” 

“I never knew what he did! And now that I do know, I still don’t understand his need to control aliens, and I never want to.” 

“Control? We’re past controlling,” said Flint. “The agenda has gone active.” As he said _active_ he rushed Alex, who side-stepped but not quickly enough. Flint grabbed the crutch, and they grappled with it until Alex twisted the shaft hard to the left, the end rotating up to strike Flint in the cheek. Flint’s grasp loosened but he kneed Alex hard in the right thigh, then swept his right foot out from under him. 

Alex crashed on his right hip. He continued with the direction of force, skittering away to get distance from Flint, but Flint pounced on him in a sloppy tackle. Alex bucked up, right leg useless but left leg planted enough to pitch his brother off balance. He rolled them over as Flint swung at him, hitting his brow, his lip, until he drove his fist into Flint’s nose, stunning him long enough for Alex to grip his thumb, twist hard, and pin his wrist to the floor.

Flint yelled, flailing with his free arm, bleeding from his nose, but Alex twisted to drive his body weight hip-first into Flint’s gut. Blood dripped from Alex’s lip into Flint’s hair. Sweat was loosening his grip on Flint’s thumb. His stump was a shriek of pain. He had to win the fight quickly, so he scrabbled one-handed between them at Flint’s pocket and yanked out a zip tie and a cell phone that clattered across the floor. He scraped Flint’s hand along the floor to a stanchion of the railing and wrapped the tie around it and Flint’s wrist. He jerked it tight. 

He scuttled back, right leg dragging, not quick enough to avoid a kick to the ribs before he got out of range. He sat, unable to get up, panting. 

Flint scrubbed the blood from his face on the sleeve of his free arm. “You’re going to regret this,” he said. “You don’t want to see what’s going to happen.” 

“What’s going to happen?” 

“He said it’s for your own good.” 

Fear dropped in his guts. “ _What’s going to happen_?” 

“No,” said Flint. “You don’t get to know. You’ve never paid your dues.” 

“For what? Impressing Dad? Because I paid all the fucking time and got _nowhere_.” Alex slowly crawled to his feet, pulling on the railing to help. He limped to the desk to retrieve his backpack and knew from the pain that his leg must be removed and put on again, but as he contemplated his options, he found it intolerable to be vulnerable in front of Flint. He would crawl out of the bunker on his hands and knees before he would let Flint see him half-naked, leg off, in pain.

He leaned hard on the crutch and stumbled on the two steps down to the main floor. 

“What do you think you’re going to do, Alex?” Flint taunted. “You can barely stand.”

Alex ignored him and grimly limped to pick up Flint’s cell phone, and then his gun that had slid across the room. He checked the safety and put it in his backpack. Maybe if he’d been wearing his own sidearm, the entire fracas could have been avoided, but maybe the outcome would have been tragic. 

The stairs out of the bunker _hurt_. He squinted in the afternoon sunlight. 

The gala was tonight. Michael had mentioned it from time to time since their early days together, more often in the past month. Two weeks ago, lolling naked in bed, he had officially invited Alex. “Not sure how it stacks up against a high school reunion, but I get four drink tickets if I bring a plus one, so I’ll make it worth your while,” Michael said and then added, “If you want to go.” Alex did want to go. He told Michael so in the moment and earned Michael’s sweetest smile. 

_He said it’s for your own good_. Michael was expendable to Jesse; Alex was sure of it. He was just as sure that Jesse had set in motion a plot that would in one way or another use Michael. Maybe use him badly. And it was going to happen at the gala. 

*

As he drove toward the center of town, Alex called Michael on the burner phone: no answer. He tried Michael’s own phone and made no connection: still blocked. Isobel’s phone went directly to voicemail and returned an auto-reply text: _I am unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message_. He didn't have Max’s number. 

Maria picked up with a friendly _hey_. 

“Are you at home? I need a favor.” 

“Yes, of course. Is this an open-the-bottle situation and skip the glasses, or…?” 

“It’s a can-I-use-your-wi-fi situation.” 

“Anything, you know that,” she said, and when he arrived half an hour later, she opened her door, grimaced, and complained, “So, not just the wi-fi, then.” 

Maria rented half a ranch duplex not far from the Wild Pony in a neighborhood where unlocked cars would get rifled but you wouldn't be murdered in your sleep. She also owned a well-stocked first-aid kit. She ordered Alex into the bathroom to sit on the closed toilet seat while she opened a packet of gauze, wet it with an antiseptic cleaner, and asked, “Who was it?” 

“Flint.” 

“He didn’t pull any punches, did he.”

Alex held up his hand to show his knuckles. “Neither did I.” 

“Mom told me once that whatever devil got hold of your dad got him, too.” She tilted Alex’s face to daub at his lip, avoiding eye contact. “You know how she says things anymore. But that kind of behavior can get passed down. Is he...like your dad? Abusive?”

“It isn’t that.”

“Then what is it?” 

Alex traced the bruises and torn skin on his knuckles with his fingertips. What could he tell her? Nothing about aliens. Nothing about Project Shepherd. “Maybe it is a little like that. Flint’s taking Dad’s side.”

“About Michael?”

“They don’t like Michael, but they don’t agree with my career decisions, either.”

“Like, in the military?” She found another scrape on his cheek. The alcohol fumes burned his nose and his eyes stung. “The way you’ve been not talking about it, I kind of thought you were getting out.” She put her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You do know it's your decision, right? They can fuck off.”

“They totally can.” He smiled briefly at her championing him and brushed the irritation from his eyes. “But it’s complicated. I can’t just up and leave anymore.”

“Because of Michael,” she said. Her hands on his shoulders cupped his neck in a gentle hug. “You really like him.”

“I do,” he said softly. “As long as he wants to be in Roswell, so do I.”

“I’ve never seen you gone so hard for a boy.” Maria smiled. “You really, _really_ like him.”

“I--yeah. I really do.” That came out easier than he thought it would. “But my dad won’t stop trying to control me.”

“And Flint is on his side, so now you’re fighting like kids again except you’ve both grown up and can actually hurt each other.” Maria picked up Alex’s hand and cleaned the scrapes on his knuckles.

She wasn’t wrong.

Alex used his own laptop and Maria’s wi-fi to knock on the NSA’s backdoor again and found it still open. He wanted fresh data on Jesse’s movements and calls. And he wanted to know more about the phone he’d found, associated with Michael and Jesse both.

“You hungry? I don’t have much. I was planning to fill up on heavy hors d'oeuvres at the Emporium.”

Alex snapped out of the internet. “You’re going?”

“It’s an excuse to wear a fancy dress and drink someone else’s liquor for a change. I figured you’d go with Michael, but since he can’t attend I thought you weren’t going to bother.”

“No, you can’t go,” he said, worry bubbling up. “You have to stay home.”

“Oh, really. And you’re going to make me, just like all the times you made me do things I didn’t want to do in high school,” she said, deadpan, and then with more steel in her tone added, “You haven’t exactly been around enough in the last ten years to see it, but I can absolutely take care of myself, and I don’t appreciate you suggesting otherwise.”

Alex absorbed the chide. Maria had been running a redneck bar for a few years now. Managing a crowd of rowdy drunks might not be the same as resisting secret government programs, but dictating what she was and was not capable of hit close to home. He brushed at the bloodstains on his henley. “Can I borrow a shirt?”

She eyed him up and down. “I have a polo from the last great romance, if you don’t mind a whale on the pocket.”

“Anything’s fine. Seriously. Thanks.” He made eye contact with Maria to prove his sincerity before he hunched over the laptop and picked up where he’d left off. He glanced through each call and text transcript as it came through, scanning for keywords and names. Most were too general to use, but then he opened a longer conversation. And another. He found terms...phrases...materials...schematics...

And a name that brought him to his feet.

*

Green searchlights waved in the sky over the UFO Emporium, four fingers of light reaching out and then converging again in a pattern. Alex parked across the street in front of a fire hydrant. Two well-dressed women entered the shiny lobby doors, laughing as they went.

Michael might be inside. Jesse for certain was--and Senator Robert “Bobby” Dorsey.

Teenagers, a girl and a boy, sat in the new ticket booth and ignored him as he opened the door. Waitstaff bustled through the lobby, carrying trays lit by neon rings full of finger food or cocktails into the ballroom. Alex stood beside a curtained door, examining the ballroom beyond. The space teemed with people in evening gowns and suits. Near the stage Jesse stood amid a small group that included one of the Green brothers.

Alex stepped back, mulling over his choices: confront Jesse now? In front of dozens of witnesses? He saw Isobel near the back and used the milling crowd to obscure his path to her.

“Isobel,” he said.

“Alex! Hi?” Isobel’s eyebrows went high, and then low as she cast a critical eye over his teal polo and gray utility pants. “I didn’t think you were going to come tonight, and looking at those clothes, maybe you didn’t either.”

“Is Michael here?”

“He’s not allowed on the property,” she said. “He decided to commune with the desert, as he called it. He left a note this morning.”

“And you haven’t heard anything since then? Anything at all?”

“No, but he’s been sulking.” Alex frowned at her and she explained, “He wanted to help tonight, but we couldn’t risk him getting caught. Max and I...made our worry known, last night. I think it’s hard for him to sit still.”

“Yeah, it is hard for him,” he said, thinking _because he’s not the seven-year-old you knew briefly, twenty years ago_. Isobel regarded him coolly, as if she’d heard the entire thought and was contemplating a retort, so he said, “I need a tour. Please, do me the honor.”

“I don’t--”

Alex leaned close. “We need to talk. If you haven’t seen or heard from Michael since last night, then he’s missing and in trouble.” He took Isobel’s arm and led her into the nearest hallway.

“Okay, slow down or people are going to start looking at us funny.” Isobel smiled and matched her pace to his, nodding at the people they passed in the throughways between display rooms. “Where are we going?”

Alex tugged them into the room with the shards, empty at the moment. He found the security camera and led Isobel to stand under it, out of its field. “We have to find Michael, and I think he’s here.”

“Here?”

“My father planned for something to go wrong at the Emporium tonight, and it involves Michael.”

“Something.” She cast him a deeply unimpressed look. “Can you be more specific?”

“He planted an alien bomb and he’s going to frame Michael for it.”

“A _what_?”

“There’s no time to explain. I have no idea what the explosive power of the alien material is, but it is part of the bomb. It will blow up.”

Isobel’s eyes widened in panic. “Oh my god, we have to find Michael.”

“They need him alive. He’s probably nearby, but there’s a catch. We have to assume my father has the technology to access all the cameras in the building.” He glanced up at the camera on the wall over their heads. “Max and Rosa are here, and Maria is on her way. They can help look, but they have to be careful.”

“No. If he’s nearby, I can find him.” Isobel inhaled and closed her eyes and frowned. “He’s not far, but I can’t tell exactly where.” After a moment, she opened her eyes. “He’s in this building. I think...this way?” She led Alex down the hall, exhibit rooms open on either side. She paused in the doorway of one, then turned and entered the room across the hall. “No,” she muttered, then returned to the shards room. She stopped abruptly at the door and drew back. People were speaking inside and Alex recognized two of the voices: one of the Green twins and Jesse Manes. He risked a glance. Jesse’s back was to the door, his arm and hand at a recognizable angle as he checked his phone. Next to Green--it was Graham wearing a print tee-shirt under a sport coat--stood a young woman with long, dark hair. Beyond her, in profile, Alex saw Senator Dorsey.

Green was wrapping up an explanation of the items in the room and announced fresh cocktails awaited them in the ballroom.

He wouldn’t find a better opportunity than this. “Go,” Alex told Isobel. “I need to stay here.”

“What?”

“It’s the senator. I don’t need long, just,” he said, his hand on the door jamb, “find Michael for me. Text as soon as you find him.”

He entered the room. “Hi, Dad.”

*

The hum of the machinery in the mechanical room drowned out any sound from outside the door. The darkness in the room was only alleviated by a few glowing lights on control panels. Michael couldn’t tell if the gala had started, and without his phone, he had no way to check. Hard to get any sense of time passing when you were handcuffed to a pipe. He thought it had been at least twelve hours, from the state of his stomach and bladder.

That morning, the woman who’d held the gun on him had smirked as she prodded him to start walking. “Hope you took a leak before you left home.”

Jesse and his accomplice led Michael through the building to a room along the dark hallway leading from the back door. The room was crammed full of equipment--air handlers, the water heater, pipes of varying size running along the walls. The woman shoved him in to stand in the center of the room.

“Ready to go, sir?”

Standing in the doorway, Jesse set down the duffel he was carrying and pulled his gun, training it on Michael. “Affirmative, Chueca. Wire him up.”

Chueca knelt by the duffel and unzipped it.

“What the fuck?” Michael almost couldn’t believe what he saw her pull out. And maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he’d seen too many crappy action movies in dollar theaters. When he’d tried to figure out Jesse’s master plan, he’d never imagined anything like this.

A bomb vest. A fucking bomb vest.

Chueca unlocked one of the cuffs. “Arms out. And don’t be a smartass. You move the wrong way, this thing goes off and turns us into a paste on the wall. I’ll shoot you before I let that happen.”

Michael lifted his arms, and she slid the vest over one, then circled behind him to reach the other. The dead weight pulled at his shoulders, and the contents of some pockets rattled metallically as he moved. Shrapnel or nails, he reasoned, and then refused to follow that train of thought any further.

Jesse pointed up with the hand not holding the gun, and Michael followed the line of sight to a small camera mounted above the door. “I’ll be watching you. Your alien friends have a small chance of getting out of here alive tonight, but if you try to trigger the explosives before the gala, I promise they’ll be dead before the morning.”

“Wasn’t really thinking about killing myself, but thanks.”

Chueca secured the vest and clicked the unlocked cuff into place around a pipe that extended almost to the floor. She had to be one of Jesse’s soldiers, or at least working for him. Latina, dark hair and eyes, several inches shorter than Michael. Pretty except for the contempt on her face as she looked at him.

As she double-checked the vest’s fastenings, Michael craned his head around her to address Jesse. “You’re just gonna kill me and how many other innocent people? Do you hate me and Alex that much?”

“Your death will serve a higher purpose,” Jesse said almost idly, as if his attention was already elsewhere.

Chueca quickly gathered the empty duffel and tested both cuffs to ensure they were locked. Without spending another second of attention on Michael, she walked out. Standing by the light switch, Jesse inspected Michael dispassionately, then flicked the switch off and shut the door, leaving him in the humming, pitch-black darkness.

Michael had tested the handcuffs a few times over the hours, but without his telekinesis, he could only tug on them, and he was afraid to risk jarring the vest. And even if his hands were free, he had no guarantee that prying open the buckles and zipper wouldn’t set off some kind of tripwire.

Max and Isobel would eventually wonder where he was, but not before the gala. Isobel had certainly spent the whole day in preparations, and Max was covering it for the Daily Record.

And Alex. Alex wouldn’t know to look for him. Not right away. Michael couldn’t help wishing that Alex would somehow _sense_ he needed help, even though he wanted Alex far, far away from the Emporium, away from physical harm, from any reminder of what he’d gone through in Iraq. He’d worked so hard on his rehab, physical and mental, and Michael didn’t want to be the cause of any more pain.

It fucking figured, though. He’d finally found somewhere he belonged. People he could belong to. A place he’d consider staying. But Jesse Manes and the U.S. government just had to fuck it up.


	22. Chapter 22

“Son,” said Jesse, his eyebrows rising. Alex gloated at the split-second of doubt that twitched along his father’s jaw, proof that he had actually expected Flint to zip-tie Alex and leave him underground. 

“Flint says hello,” Alex said, “and sends his regrets.” 

The young woman by Jesse’s side regarded Alex coolly, styled for glamor and vaguely familiar, but Alex couldn’t place her. Jesse nodded to the woman. “Chueca, if you please,” he said, and she slipped away from Jesse’s side, leading Alex’s eye to where Graham Green stood as she passed through the door. Green frowned at the interruption of his tour. 

Senator Robert Dorsey turned. “Alex Manes! I was told you were indisposed. Jesse, you told me he was indisposed.” 

Jesse opened his mouth to speak but Alex addressed Dorsey directly. “I am not indisposed. Sir, there’s a credible threat against your safety.” 

Dorsey, handsome in the adaptable way of actors and politicians as they aged, furrowed his brow in avuncular concern. “What kind of threat?” 

Graham Green interjected, “A what?”

“You need to evacuate the building,” Alex said. “Now.” 

“I can’t throw everyone out,” Green protested. “It’s the gala!” 

“There’s no need to panic. This is an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Jesse told Green reasonably before he stared at Alex. “Now is not the time or place.” 

“Hold on now, I want to know just how credible,” Dorsey said. 

“I have information confirming there’s a bomb on the premises,” Alex continued, still ignoring his father. 

“A _what_?” Green exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Alex,” Jesse said sharply, “enough. Bobby, I apologize. My son--” He moved close to Dorsey. “The effects of his trauma are not just physical. You know how these things can go. It’s been a rough road, and he hasn’t been the same since he got back."

"Senator, I don't know what my father has told you, but..." 

Jesse tried again to interrupt, but Dorsey held out a hand and said, "Let him talk."

Alex launched into the details. “DDNP-based detonators have been purchased and shipped here, to Roswell,” he explained. “I have phone records of their movement from seller to buyer. And sir, your personal team’s communications have been compromised. Your travel schedule and details over the past few weeks were acquired, but only up to the Emporium Gala. Whatever has been planned will happen here. Tonight.”

“They want to bomb him here? Tonight?” Green picked his way closer, eyeing Alex as if he was the bad news and not the messenger.

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask people to move along,” said Dorsey, level-headed in his nonchalance, “as a precautionary measure.”

Green edged to the door. “I-I have to find my event manager.”

“Evacuate the building,” Alex ordered Green. “Get everyone out!”

“Yes, let’s get to the bottom of this,” said Dorsey as he watched Green leave. “You’ve made some strong allegations, Captain, though I wish you’d use more discretion. Can you back it up?”

“I have evidence.”

“There is no evidence,” said Jesse. “I told you, he’s not well.”

Dorsey’s expression closed, speculative, as he told Jesse, “I’ll make my own assessment of the situation.”

Alex drew the folded bundle of pages he’d printed at Maria’s from his back pocket and offered them to Dorsey. “DDNP detonators burn hot--hot enough to ignite extraterrestrial organic glass. A large piece of unidentified alien glass not accounted for at Caulfield was recently stolen from a private collection.”

Dorsey looked sharply from the papers to Alex. “You’ve been onboarded.” He shot another glance at Jesse. “When did this happen? I wasn’t informed.”

“Oh, you mean to Project Shepherd?” Alex kept Dorsey in his focus but the sarcasm was for Jesse. “No, I can’t say that I have been officially welcomed.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means Alex has managed to hack just enough information about the project to feed his delusions,” insisted Jesse, lowering the angle of the phone in his hand. “It’s a credit to his skill how he managed to find out as much as he did, but his current state of mind makes him that much more dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

Alex stared at Jesse. Jesse’s use of the woman’s last name, Chueca, nagged him, but his father kept throwing larger outrages at him. “What?”

“His PTSD is severe.” Jesse spoke directly to Dorsey. “I’ve spoken with his brothers about this. My eldest, Clay, and his wife asked that Alex come to me here in Roswell instead of staying at their home. They have the baby, now, and there is the worry he may harm himself. Or someone else, unintentionally.”

“That is a strong statement.” Dorsey cast his scrutiny from Alex to Jesse.

“I want nothing more than for the Manes legacy to continue at the Project, but I can’t give Alex access to Shepherd,” Jesse said. He turned to Alex. “He’s too unstable to be brought in.” 

_He wants me to react_. Jesse wanted outrage and hysterical rebuttals from Alex to prove instability. It was an old dance that had provoked Alex to rage or tears as a child so Jesse could rub his nose in his own weakness, but it was a tactic that Alex had overcome, and he burned more with curiosity than anger. Jesse laid the lies thick and provoking, but why? They were easy enough to discredit.

Alex ignored Jesse and faced Dorsey. “The bomb threat is real, Senator, and you are the target. You’re holding proof in your hands.”

“All I see are poor quality printouts. What am I looking at?

“They include transcripts.” Alex flipped the pages for Dorsey. “They document the movement of materials for the bomb. And I have witness reports of evidence planted to incriminate a civilian.”

“A civilian?”

“Senator, the threat is military.”

“He’s paranoid,” Jesse accused, cutting across Alex’s explanation. “He thinks that I’m targeting him and his Companion--for what, I don’t know. They seemed to get along at first, but Alex’s mental stability hasn’t improved, and his Companion was removed because he was unsuitable to keep up with Alex’s special needs. Alex invaded my office on base the next day, armed and agitated. He accused me of orchestrating a false charge.”

Dorsey regarded Jesse, inscrutable. “I seem to recall your assurances that the captain would be brought on board. Soon, you said, but sooner if he came home to Roswell. To recover.”

“I had hoped.”

Enough. Alex might have analyzed every micro-expression to find evidence that his father cared about him, was proud of him, or knew any authentic part of him, but Jesse had tipped his hand that morning in his office. There was nothing positive to find. There never would be.

“No, you had argued and threatened, and I kept saying no,” Alex said before Jesse could continue or Dorsey could respond. “So why did you keep trying? Because you tried hard, Dad, even when you wouldn’t tell me what Project Shepherd was all about, but here’s a thing I figured out: you didn’t bother with my career one way or the other until _after_ the dinner at Senator Dorsey’s. Not even when I was nominated for the Medal of Honor! But after Senator Dorsey invited me to dinner and said some very nice things about my future opportunities-- _then_ you showed up.”

“I invited you because I wanted you on the project,” said Dorsey. “I told your father as much.” 

“Maybe you did, but he didn’t want me there, not really. Not until you threatened to close down Project Shepherd.” He took the papers from Dorsey’s hand and read aloud: “But as for the Shepherd base in Roswell, I’m pulling the plug.” He looked up. “This is dated October 22 of last year, when I was still training local personnel in Iraq. One week later, communications between satellite intel and the network I was personally working on threw an error, and a simple training exercise was blown to hell. I should have been investigated, for negligence at least, and prosecuted for it, but since I got on the damn humvee and blown to hell with everyone else, someone felt guilty and covered up a mistake that _I never made_.” 

“Now I’m responsible for your accident? Is there anything you won’t blame on me?” 

“And yet at the Shepherd command center, I found a request for access to the DOD satellite made with _your_ credentials.” 

“That god damned satellite!” Dorsey exclaimed. His affable charm, which had cooled upon Alex’s news, chilled to razor focus on Jesse. “The favors I called in! Your boy’s telling the truth.”

“Bobby, we’ve known each other twenty years--” 

“What on earth possessed you to sabotage an American mission?” 

“No, that request for access had to do with tracking an alien--”

Dorsey rode over Jesse’s explanation. “Don’t you dare tell me there was an active alien threat because there hasn’t been a threat for decades.” 

The penetrating buzz of a fire alarm cut off Jesse’s protest, and chatter from the ballroom increased in volume and intensity. Hopefully it was the Greens telling everyone to evacuate. Alex caught Jesse glancing at his phone again.

“And frankly,” added Dorsey, “I find it odd that you don’t seem terribly concerned about the possibility of a bomb.”

“Oh, the threat is real, sir,” Alex said. “But my father isn’t going to blow himself up.” 

Graham Green bustled into the room, cutting them off. He jittered about with the anxious energy usual of his twin, his toupee just off center, his eyes showing white all around the irises. Isobel Evans was on his heels, berating him as they entered. “--unless you want to be steamrolled by liability, then you--oh!”

“Senator Dorsey, oh thank God,” Green exclaimed, “yes, please, exactly, it’s time to vacate the premises. Immediately.” He gestured to the door that led into the hallway, but Isobel touched his arm and caught his full attention as she told him with particular emphasis, “You need to organise your caterers and employees to help the guests get outside. I’ll take very good care of the senator.”

“You will, won’t you,” he replied, voice calmer, but his eyes remained open wide, darting around.

“Graham. Graham! You need to go now.”

“Yes,” said Green, distracted, as he drifted back out the door. “I’ll organise my caterers and employees to help the guests get outside. You’ll take very good care of the senator. I’ll organise my caterers and...”

Isobel commanded the room with a knowing sweep that took in the tableau as if she had heard exactly what was said before she entered. No one had followed her. Before Alex could voice the question shouting in his mind, Isobel answered it aloud: “I couldn’t find him, Alex.”

She turned to Dorsey. “Senator, I have a few questions for you, if you please.” His face was still ruddy with anger at Jesse, his brow pushed low, but he froze at her light-eyed stare. “I--” His mouth snapped shut. Finally, Isobel demanded, “Where’s your assistant?”

Dorsey blinked rapidly, as if regaining his bearings. “That young woman isn’t my assistant.” He turned to Jesse. “She’s one of yours. Where did you send her?”

“I assure you--”

_One of yours._ Recognition burst open upon a memory of the petite guard at Caulfield, with her stiff, black uniform, hat pulled low, and her long hair wound into a heavy bun at the base of her neck. Alex stared at Jesse, furious all over again. His crutch clattered to the ground as he shoved Jesse up against a case, his hands clutching Jesse’s shirt high around his neck. “You sent her after him. _Where is Michael?_ ”

*

Michael blinked furiously to clear the tears that filled his eyes when the door to the mechanical room swung open and let in light from the hall.

"Get up."

As his vision cleared, he saw Chueca, no longer dressed in the nondescript clothes she’d worn earlier in the day, instead wearing a black shirt and pants made of some flowy material. When he didn't move, she sighed and opened her purse.

"Don't waste my time, Guerin. Up." She aimed the gun at him almost lazily and tossed the purse to the side.

With one hand on the floor and one braced against the wall behind him, Michael levered himself up, working the metal cuff up the pipe as he went. "Hold your horses. It's gonna take a minute for my legs to work again."

Chueca turned her head to check the hallway, then stepped inside and turned on the light before shutting the door. Her upper lip curled in disgust as she noticed the smell of urine.

Michael shrugged. "Guess nobody told me to go before I left home. Had to use a corner."

“You’re disgusting.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.” The gun pressed under Michael’s chin kept him still as Chueca unlocked the cuff around the pipe.

“Hands in front.” She clicked the cuff into place on his right wrist and tugged on the chain to pull him away from the wall. Satisfied that the cuffs were secure, she circled around behind Michael. “Start walking.”

Michael resisted as much as he could until she stuck the gun into his back. He stepped into the hall, and she nudged him to the right, towards the main part of the building. “Where are we going? Are they still serving appetizers? Because I am starving.”

“Do you ever shut up? No wonder Master Sergeant Manes wants you dead.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” he snapped. “Are you proud of what he’s making you do?”

“He’s not making me do anything. He showed me what you and your kind are. You’re dangerous. You’re cruel and twisted, and you’d do anything to take this planet for your own.”

Chueca shoved him so forcefully that he almost tripped and had to catch himself with his shoulder against the wall. And then he realized--he’d unthinkingly used his telekinesis to cushion the blow. Whatever Jesse had injected into him, it was wearing off.

“You are seriously off your gourd, lady.” Hearing the hate pouring from her mouth was worse than hearing it from Jesse. The Manes family had been involved in the conspiracy from the beginning, when the ship crashed, and from what Michael had seen of the Project Shepherd archives, Jesse had been indoctrinated from the day he was born. But Chueca believed his dogma with the fervency of the newly converted. She hadn’t grown up hating and fearing aliens. She’d made a choice.

They were passing through Michael’s least favorite room, the crash reconstruction. When the fire alarm blared, he flinched for a second, then seized the opportunity, reaching with his telekinesis for the nearest heavy object.

The small-scale flying saucer, mounted to the wall directly in front of him. He yanked at it with his mind and ducked as it flew straight at him. It impacted Chueca with a dull thud, and he heard the gun skittering away across the floor. He risked a look behind him; Chueca was curled up on the floor, clutching her stomach and gasping for breath.

Michael took off and sprinted through a couple of back hallways, betting on her not knowing the layout of the Emporium as well as he did. He shouldered open the door of the single-occupant restroom and fumbled to lock it behind him. The handcuffs clicked open after a moment of concentration. If he was lucky, Manes and Chueca knew about his origin but not his telekinesis.

He looked at himself in the mirror, but everything fuzzed into an indistinguishable blur of wires and black material. Even with his hands free, no way he knew enough to mess with the bomb vest. Taking it off safely would require someone with at least a basic knowledge of explosives. Someone military. Someone at the gala. Someone who didn’t want him dead.

Alex had planned to accompany Michael to the gala, before the contract suspension. They’d joked about it, teased each other about dressing up nice and eating fancy devilled eggs and stuffed mushrooms, maybe even trying out the dance floor after they’d drunk enough. Would Alex have come without him?

Michael had spent his whole life learning that he couldn’t count on anyone to help him. The world wasn’t even cruel, just indifferent. Sometimes--rarely--it worked out in his favor, like when he signed his life away and got Alex in return. Sometimes he got taken from the only family he’d ever known, or strapped into a bomb vest by a murderous bigot.

But being with Alex made him want to believe. In trust. In faith. In love. In an indifferent world that, every once in a while, watched as things went right.

He needed help, and he wasn’t going to get it hiding in a bathroom, waiting for Jesse to find him and kill him.

First, he cracked open the door and scanned the hallway. So far, no sign of Chueca or Jesse Manes. If he concentrated, he thought he could hear the hum of people, so the gala had probably started. He didn’t remember exactly how many people had RSVP’d, but it could be as high as one-fifty, even two hundred. It would take time and clear heads to safely evacuate them.

Running into the ballroom would ensure witnesses, if Jesse tried to grab him. On the other hand, he still had a bomb strapped to him, and people could get hurt in a stampede--provided Jesse didn’t just blow the bomb. Michael didn’t think he was planning mass murder, but who knew with that asshole.

But Michael didn’t think Jesse was planning suicide either, so near him was the safest place to be. Maybe he could find Jesse and threaten to set the bomb off unless he removed it. It seemed like the best option of limited choices. 

*

Above Alex’s grip on his shirt, Jesse’s eyes widened but he showed no other emotion. Haze filled Alex’s vision. He tightened his grip, pulling the cloth of the uniform tight, and watched his father’s face redden.

“Alex!” Isobel pulled at Alex’s shoulders. He shoved away from Jesse, his vision still hazed: smoke, not fury. “We have to get everyone out of here so we can look for any other _guests_ who might still be in the building. Senator? Right this way.” Isobel led them through the hall and into the ballroom, Alex at the rear to watch Jesse. The ballroom was empty, and the noises of people moving about in the lobby faded quickly as the building emptied. Beverage glasses half-full, small plates of half-eaten food, and crumpled napkins were strewn about on the few standing tables. A glowing serving tray was abandoned on the floor near the stage.

“Isobel!” Max Evans burst into the ballroom from the opposite hall, Liz Ortecho and Maria flanking him.

“Was that you?” Isobel asked just as Max said, “Is Michael here?” Isobel continued over Max, contending, “Couldn’t you think of something that didn’t involve setting things on fire?”

“Isobel!” Max exclaimed. “There’s no fire, it’s only smoke, but we don’t have long before fire and rescue show up.”

“We’ve got to get Senator Dorsey to safety but he has no security.”

“I’m his security,” said Jesse.

“You are not my security,” Dorsey said, grim. “Not anymore.”

Alex remained stationed behind the others, watching. Jesse repeatedly checked his phone, jaw clenched and, at Dorsey’s pronouncement, he slipped the phone into his pocket. His hand remained low. He carried no weapon openly, but that didn’t mean he was unarmed.

The smoke thickened. Rosa Ortecho and Kyle Valenti rushed up from the hallway behind Alex. The doors swung shut behind them.

“Having trouble with all your creepy spy cameras?” Rosa brandished a can of spray paint at Jesse as she went to join her sister, Kyle following as if leashed. “Don’t fuck with an artist, asshole.”

“You keep spray paint in your purse?” said Isobel.

Rosa shook the can to make it rattle, _obviously!_ implied in her glare.

“She’s got half a paint store in there,” Kyle verified, holding up his own can.

“I brought you with me so we could make fun of people together, not so you could criticize my purse.”

“ _Enough!_ What is it,” said Jesse, “that _any_ of you think you’re doing?”

He spoke with utter calm and pure menace which shocked Alex, who had heard that tone many times in his life, but never in front of witnesses. The others fell silent and watched him, disquieted.

Max stepped up. “We’re stopping you.”

“Why? Because Alex convinced you somehow that I’m a danger?”

“Because you’ve already proved you’re a danger,” said Max, gaining momentum. 

“We know that you framed Michael to get him away from Alex, and now he’s missing,” accused Isobel. “Where is he? Where’s Michael?”

Jesse nodded at the senator. “Bobby, ask her why she cares so much about a loner with no childhood who came into town only months ago. Ask her and her brother how old they were when they were _adopted_.”

Dorsey said nothing, but his mouth thinned, lips pressed tight, considering, and Alex had to derail that line of investigation, now.

“You’re a danger because you’ll do anything to stop your job from getting shut down,” said Alex. “The senator is holding evidence in his hands right now and I’ve got plenty more.”

“You should have left,” Jesse said. His phone was back in his hand. “All of you. I gave you every opportunity. I’m not responsible for what happens next.”

The center lobby door slammed open, commanding everyone’s attention. Flint charged the group, weapon drawn, and Alex whipped his sidearm into position amid the surprised noises from the others. A flicker of movement in his periphery alerted him too late, and he staggered, off-balance as his right leg lit up in agony where his father kicked him just above his prosthesis. Jesse knocked the gun from his hand and flipped him neatly around into a neck hold in the sudden commotion. The others cried out, shocked, and Flint shouted, “ _Don’t move!_ ”

Alex fought to breathe. He rasped, “What are you _doing_?”

His father answered. “What I need to.”

Jesse’s casual violence was familiar but out of context: the last time he’d laid a hand on Alex was in high school. Alex was no longer a child, but the shock of pain and inability to control his own body flipped a very old switch in him, and he was forced again to endure the helpless, teary frustration of a beating he could not stop or escape. What appalled him was not that his father hurt him, but how his own body betrayed him. No foot, no ankle, prosthesis fucked up, crutch on the floor. Humiliation flooded him, but rationality brought him back to the moment.

He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t powerless. He wasn’t alone.

He still might not make it out this time. He struggled until Jesse pressed against the side of his neck. Panicked, he stopped fighting and the pressure released.

The doors to the opposite hallway opened. Lucia Chueca entered, still wearing formalwear but now carrying a modified M4 carbine.

“Cover them,” Jesse said.

“Manes!” shouted Dorsey. “What in God’s name?”

“I’ve tried to convince you of the danger we face.” He tightened his arm around Alex’s neck, keeping him low and unable to get his good leg planted. Alex’s prosthesis had lost its seal and was slipping, though he couldn’t tell how much through the storm of agony sheeting through the nerves.

“So what?” Alex gritted out. “You’re going to blow us all up?”

“No, I have Guerin to do that.”

“ _What did you do to Michael?_ ”

“Guerin. Come out. Slowly.” He applied more torque on Alex’s neck, forcing him to clutch at Jesse’s forearm, still off balance and fighting for air. The barrel of Jesse’s glock pressed against his head.

One of the women gasped. Max said, “No!” Rosa uttered a heartful _fuck_ and a spate of Spanish that cut off when Jesse’s whole body tensed as he roared, “Guerin! _Now!_ ”

Alex twisted, scrambling for balance, but then froze. Michael walked slowly into the ballroom from the wings of the stage. He was covered in a utility vest. Wires looped up from under the collar and below the bottom edge. The pockets bulged. Michael stared at Alex, his eyes shouting silent apologies.

“Flint, lock the doors.”

Flint didn’t move, doubt twisting his face.

“ _Do it, soldier!_ ” Jesse bellowed at Flint, spittle flying. His grip on Alex seized with the effort. Flint scurried to the nearest door by the stage. 

“What you refuse to understand is that the threat is real,” Jesse said calmly, his face still red and wet with sweat from yelling. With the conviction of a zealot, he explained, “That creature is far more dangerous than the bomb it carries, and so are its brethren. Chueca,” he said, “round them up. All of them.” 

“You traitorous ingrate!” Dorsey stepped forward, squaring up: a calculated show of dominance from a tall, broad-shouldered man. “How dare you presume to--”

“If he moves again,” Jesse ordered, “shoot him.”

She herded Isobel and Max closer to Michael. The others stared, dumbfounded. The doors to one hall and then the other closed and rattled as Flint secured them, one by one.

“You see, I do what needs to be done to drag them out from the shadows.”

“What does that even mean?” Liz protested. “You can’t just kill us all!”

“I was never going to blow myself up.” Jesse dragged Alex with him as he backed toward the lobby doors. Chueca and Flint backed with him, all three of their weapons holding the others in a fearful tableau.

“No. No! Dad, Dad. Dad! Stop!” Alex struggled for traction, for a chance to steady his left foot as he begged, “You know these people. How long have you worked for Senator Dorsey? And Kyle’s father was your friend for years.”

“Collateral damage is a part of war. You know this better than anyone. Their loss is acceptable in the face of what we gain.” He fumbled his phone out with his gun hand, bracing it against the arm around Alex’s neck. Alex ignored the gun next to his head, trying to knock the phone away, but with an electronic bleat, it was too late.

Isobel shrieked. “No!” 

“Two minutes?! Are you fucking kidding me?!” Michael’s outrage roared through the ballroom.

Alex gave up fighting for his airway or a foot on the ground and attacked Jesse like a feral cat, gouging at his eyes, using his own body weight to drag Jesse down, and then biting Jesse’s forearm as his vision tunnelled from lack of air. He hit the floor, gasping, _breathing_ , and rolled away to struggle upright.

Flint rushed forward to help him up, to drag him out of the room, and Alex shoved him off only to lose his balance and hit the ground again.

“Leave him,” said Jesse as he wiped blood from his face.

“Dad!” cried Flint. “It’s Alex!”

“Don’t bother,” Alex told Flint. “I’m nothing but currency to him. You should get out before he spends you, too.” He finally gained his feet and lurched back to where Michael stood, surrounded by the others.

“He’s made his choice,” Jesse said. 

Flint hesitated. He cast a brief look at Alex.

“I gave you an order. If you can’t follow it, you can stay here and die with them.”

Relief lowered Flint’s shoulders, and disdain hardened his eyes as he turned and followed his father, Chueca on his six.

“Alex, oh my god,” said Maria. She dashed to his side, supporting him with her shoulder under his arm. Kyle Valenti, surprisingly, took up the other side, and they went to Michael as the doors behind them boomed shut.


	23. Chapter 23

The certainty of his own death hadn’t thrilled Michael, but now he was faced with a room full of the only people in the world that he loved. And he was about to kill them.

Alex was on his feet in front of Michael, but he was unsteady, Kyle and Maria crowding in anxiously to support him. He’d been hurt in the scuffle with Jesse, and if they somehow made it out alive, Michael planned to make Jesse pay for that. Max and Isobel flanked him, surrounding Michael in a semicircle.

“Please tell me you know what to do with this thing,” Max said to Alex, and Isobel added, her voice thin and high, “There’s got to be something you can do.”

Alex shrugged off Maria and Kyle and hobbled closer to Michael, leaning in to peer at the vest. “Don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” Michael felt the vibration as Alex slowly lowered the zipper. “What do you see?”

“Wires, mostly.”

Dorsey tried to nose in. “You can defuse this, can’t you?”

“Everybody, go check the doors. If you can’t get out, find some cover.” Alex jostled a few of the wires, and Michael tried not to flinch. 

“Alex, listen to me--”

Alex didn’t even look up from the vest. “Someone get him out of the way.”

Michael watched helplessly as Maria, Liz, Kyle, and Rosa scattered, Rosa pulling Dorsey along with her. They rattled the doors that led out of the ballroom without any luck. Fucking Jesse Manes. Even though he’d seen it happen, he couldn’t understand how he’d walked out and left Alex to die. As much as Alex hated his father, Michael knew he never would have abandoned him like that.

“Alex,” said Michael, forcing himself to act calm when everything inside him was screaming. “You need to go too. Go, get away from me before--”

“Shut up.” 

The panic broke through, tearing up his voice. “Go! All of you! It’s not worth it!”

“Yes, you are,” Isobel said, hearing what he hadn’t said, her voice unsteady and eyes wet. “We’re finally together.”

“We found you,” added Max, “and we’re not letting you go.” His broad hand gripped Michael’s upper arm on one side, Isobel’s slim fingers on the other.

“You have to, please,” he begged. Tears spilled out of his eyes and his breath caught in his lungs. This was worse than dying. At least the bomb would kill him quickly. “Alex--”

Alex lifted his head and locked gazes with Michael. He didn’t look afraid.

“Please, just go,” he choked out.

“No,” Alex whispered. He took Michael’s face in his hands. “I’m staying with you.”

Michael moaned, miserable. Alex couldn’t say that, why would he say that? His hands came up from where they’d clenched in Alex’s shirt and slid around to the base of his skull, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. Their foreheads touched. Their lives were measured in seconds, and they spent a few precious ones breathing each other in.

Alex moved, and Michael forced himself to let go. He could read the timer upside-down: 47, 46, 45. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t do anything to disturb Alex’s concentration. Did Alex have any training on this? Did the military teach all soldiers about bombs?

“I can get it off, but we’ll have almost no time to get to cover,” Alex said. 

Hope sparked in him. He hadn’t let himself feel it before now, and it hurt, like blood returning to ice-cold fingers. “Do it. I’ll fling it away.”

“With your--?” 

“Now now _now _do it now!” Isobel’s voice rose in urgency.__

__“Step back,” Alex said. Max and Isobel backed up a few steps, not far enough to satisfy Michael, but they were out of time. “Get ready to slide it off and throw it as hard as you can. Aim for the corner of the stage to contain as much of the shrapnel as possible. On three, okay? Everyone else, get behind something!”_ _

__Finally Max and Isobel raced to the opposite wall while Alex opened the vest completely and began pulling wires out. Michael tensed, preparing to move._ _

__“One, Two. Three!” Alex jerked the last wire free._ _

__Michael slipped out of the vest and turned to fling it away as hard as he could, then continued his turn and wrapped around Alex, pulling them to the floor as the bomb roared overhead._ _

__The blast wave hit like he'd slammed into a wall, followed by the razor-sharp bite of shrapnel. Michael did what he could to push it away with his telekinesis, but the explosion happened blindingly fast, and then the aftermath stretched out forever. The room filled with chokingly thick smoke and dust. Bits of metal and wood rained to the floor. Underneath him, Alex’s chest shuddered._ _

__“Alex. Alex!” Michael’s voice was muffled in his head, his ears stunned. Alex's eyes were closed, brows knit tight, jaw clenched. “Are you hurt? Alex! _Are you hurt_?” _ _

__Alex coughed and squinted through the dust settling on his face, on everything. “No.” He coughed again. “I don’t think so.”_ _

__“Oh, thank god,” Michael sighed as relief nearly knocked him over. He clasped Alex’s face and nuzzled his gritty cheek and temple, pressed his lips to Alex’s warm skin. _Alive, we’re alive_. Alex’s arms came up around Michael, fists clenched in his shirt, holding him tight. Michael wanted to lay his head on Alex’s chest and listen to the beat of his heart, but he closed his eyes, accepting Alex’s embrace and aware of every place they touched, more than he’d dared hope for a minute ago. _ _

__Michael gently rolled away from Alex and sat up, taking stock of himself. Pain streaked up his back, but it felt superficial, like the distant aches that would rise up as bruises by tomorrow. The cut on his left bicep was worse, blood soaking his sleeve, but he could move, so it wasn’t important._ _

__“You okay?” Alex croaked._ _

__“Yeah. You wanna try to stand?”_ _

__“Maybe not yet.” Alex winced, his face shock-white. Michael helped him to sit up, right leg stretched out in front of him, looking steadier with each breath. He cast about the wreckage. “Where’s my crutch?”_ _

__“I’ll look for it.”_ _

__Dust and wood fragments fell away as Michael climbed to his feet. He was alive and Alex was alive, but what about the others? “Max! Isobel!”_ _

__Isobel emerged from the dust, strands of hair slipping from the bun she’d worn it in, and cuts and scrapes streaking her bare shoulders and arms. “Michael?”_ _

__He pulled her into a desperate, too-tight hug, and it hurt like hell when she bumped his arm where blood was weighing down his sleeve. He hadn’t noticed the pain before, and he didn’t give a shit now. “What about Max?”_ _

__“He’s okay,” she said, her tone solid and certain. “I’d know if he was hurt.”_ _

__“See if you can find him or any of the others.”_ _

__Isobel headed one way and he went the other. The structure seemed stable, from what he could see. The bomb had destroyed one side of the stage, the shredded curtains still fluttering. He figured the damage extended through the rooms bordering the stage on that side. The alarms had stopped and the sprinklers hadn’t gone off, so maybe nothing had actually caught fire. That, or the fire suppression system was damaged, but he’d worry about that when confronted by it._ _

__He spotted Rosa against one wall, too close to the stage for his comfort. Stepping over wrecked floorboards and plaster, he made his way to her side. Rosa bent over a figure on the ground._ _

__Dorsey._ _

__“Is he dead?” Michael made himself ask._ _

__Rosa straightened up. “No, only knocked out, I think. He’s not bleeding anywhere obvious, and he’s breathing okay.”_ _

__With the dust finally starting to settle, Michael looked around to orient himself. The ruined stage was on his left. In front of him, clear across the ballroom, he saw Isobel with Kyle and Maria, everyone upright and moving on their own. Alex remained sitting on the ground, craning his neck around in search of his crutch. Michael saw it lying on the ground several feet away from Alex, hidden from his view by a collapsed table._ _

__“Here.” Michael gave it to Alex so he could support himself as he stood with Michael’s help. That left Max and--_ _

__“Liz!” The scream ripped out of Max’s throat, an anguished sound unlike any Michael had heard from him before. “Somebody help me!”_ _

__“Max!” he shouted. “Where are you?” He ran in the direction of the noise, almost tripping over a discarded serving tray before he saw Max, on his knees and bending over Liz’s sprawled body. Kyle reached them first and skidded to a stop before dropping down next to her and checking her wrist for a pulse._ _

__“Is she okay?” Next to Michael, Maria wrapped her arms around herself like she was cold. Blood dripped from a cut on her cheek._ _

__Liz should have been safe, this far from the blast. Maybe she was like Dorsey, knocked out but without any serious injuries._ _

__“What’s wrong with her?” Max tugged at Kyle’s arm, but Kyle shook him off._ _

__“Let me check,” he snapped. Michael watched helplessly as Kyle leaned down and put his ear near Liz’s nose and mouth. Fingernails dug into his arm before Rosa’s presence at his other side registered._ _

__“What’s going on?”_ _

__Michael just shook his head, dread beginning to creep through him. He didn’t know Liz that well, but she was always vibrant. Her smile lit up a room, and her rare spats with Rosa threw sparks. Sometimes during a shift at the Crashdown she fed coins into the jukebox and danced around the tables._ _

__“She’s not breathing! Internal injuries, maybe. Get out of the way.” Kyle pushed Max back before placing one hand over the other and beginning chest compressions._ _

__“No!”_ _

__“Max.” Isobel crouched down next to him. “Let Kyle try to help her.”_ _

__Max crumpled into himself for a moment but then shook off Isobel so violently that she stumbled back and almost fell. He reached across Liz’s body and pushed Kyle away before shoving his right hand into the neckline of Liz’s dress._ _

__“What the hell are you doing?” Thrown off balance, Kyle landed on one knee, and before he could right himself, Max’s hand started glowing._ _

__The room shuddered around them as Max’s face contorted with effort. Maria flinched back; Rosa’s grip slipped from Michael’s arm. The lights that hadn’t been broken by the bomb blew out, bulbs exploding in showers of sparks. Splinters of wood lying on the floor danced around as the ground trembled beneath Michael’s feet._ _

__Since they’d met, Michael had never seen Max use his powers. He’d gotten the impression that Max and Isobel tried to pretend they were entirely normal, and of course they would. Max couldn’t go around healing mortal injuries without giving away their secret and exposing them to danger._ _

__But he was. The humans had to know they were witnessing an unearthly phenomenon. Blinding light shone through Max’s fingers as his hand contracted. A scream tore through him as the shaking and surging reached their highest pitch. Then it all stopped, shockingly sudden, leaving the room silent and dark._ _

__Michael heard a gasp, and Isobel turned on her phone’s flashlight, shining it down on Liz as her eyes opened._ _

__“What happened?” she asked._ _

__“Liz!” Rosa knelt down next to Kyle and reached out to her sister with shaking hands. “Are you okay?”_ _

__“Yeah, I’m fine, I think.” She looked up at the circle of anxious faces surrounding her. “Why is everyone looking at me?”_ _

__“Gracias a Dios.” Rosa burst into tears, and Liz immediately sat up to embrace her, clearly unsure what had upset her sister so much. Maria piled into the hug as Kyle sat back, frozen in shock._ _

__Max drew Michael’s attention from the tableau as he lurched away, barely able to get upright before staggering into a corner and retching. As she rushed past Michael, Isobel grabbed his arm, towing him along with her until they reached Max. Pale and sweaty, Max leaned against the wall, breathing shallowly._ _

__“What’s wrong with him?” Michael asked._ _

__“It’s because he used his powers like that.” Isobel crouched next to Max and gently pushed his hair off his forehead. “Do you have any acetone?”_ _

__Michael paused for a second, but she clearly wanted an answer. “Is that a joke?”_ _

__“No,” she snapped. “I couldn’t fit my bottle in my purse tonight. This hasn’t ever happened to you?”_ _

__“Have I ever brought someone back from the dead and then puked?”_ _

__“Very funny.” She dismissed him and turned back to Max. “Are you feeling any better?”_ _

__“I’m regretting those stuffed mushrooms.”_ _

__“Everyone’s a comedian,” Isobel sighed._ _

__Michael squeezed his eyes closed for a second as he tried to process everything that had happened in the last ten minutes. Opening them again didn’t help. “Were you guys planning to tell me that Max could do--that?”_ _

__“Trust me, he’s never done anything like it before.”_ _

__Isobel’s threatening glare was wasted on Max, whose own eyes had drifted shut. “I didn’t know if I could do it. But I had to try.” He twitched a shoulder in a weak shrug. “I couldn’t let her die.”_ _

__“They all know now, Max!” Michael had worried about other people discovering their secret, but the threat posed by Jesse Manes and Project Shepherd was so paramount that he’d focused all his attention on it. But now--Rosa and Maria--he barely knew Kyle, and Kyle was a doctor, what if he wanted to experiment on them--Liz was some kind of biomedical scientist, and maybe that was even worse._ _

__“Hey, it’s okay.” Michael’s body knew the gentle touch on his arm. He almost shook Alex off before he saw how unsteady he was on his feet. “They won’t hurt you.”_ _

__“How can you be sure?” His whole life, he’d been scared of discovery, just like Max and Isobel, and it was happening like an avalanche. Eighteen hours ago he’d thought Alex was the only human who knew about him. Then Jesse and Chueca had attacked him, and thanks to Max more and more people knew, and it would be impossible to contain their secret._ _

__Alex tried to soothe him with a hand on his back. “They’re good people.”_ _

__“I don’t know them! How am I supposed to trust them with my life?”_ _

__“You know Rosa and Maria. You think either of them would turn you over to the government?”_ _

__No, not with Rosa’s fiercely combative spirit, or Maria’s warmth and unquestionable loyalty. Even if they didn’t want to protect Michael, they’d do it for Alex. He hoped Liz would feel the same way. Max had saved her life, after all._ _

__“What about Kyle?” Michael said._ _

__Alex looked uncertain. “He’s not the same person he was in high school. And even in high school, he was petty, not dangerous. His dad was a good man.”_ _

__“Is that enough for you to trust him with our lives?”_ _

__Alex pursed his lips and shook his head, but not in refusal. “I’ll talk to him.”_ _

__“Not without me,” Michael insisted. Max was still pale, but not ghost-white, and Isobel would stay with him. “Besides, you shouldn’t be putting weight on that leg. Lean on me.”_ _

__Kyle had his hand on Liz’s wrist again, maybe to convince himself that her heart was actually beating._ _

__“I’m fine, honestly. Will you let me get up?” Liz braced her hands under her and clambered to her feet, encumbered by her form-fitting gown. Kyle and Rosa moved to help her, and she shrugged away their support. “Is someone going to tell me why you’re all so worried? I had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all.”_ _

__“This is going to sound crazy.” Rosa steered her away, as if this was a private conversation they needed to have. Michael wondered what exactly Rosa was planning to tell her, but it gave him and Alex a chance to talk to Kyle._ _

__“What the _fuck_ did I just see?” Kyle took a breath, giving Alex or Michael time to chime in with their own incredulity, but when neither of them said anything, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re not surprised. You know what’s going on here.”_ _

__“Not exactly,” Alex equivocated._ _

__“Don’t bullshit me, Alex. She wasn’t breathing. She didn’t have a heartbeat. She was clinically dead. And then Max Evans--did he shock her somehow? Is that what restarted her heart?”_ _

__Alex deferred to Michael, who didn’t want to say anything but caved to Kyle’s visible panic. “I don’t think Max knows what he did.”_ _

__Alex took pity on Kyle then. “Kyle, he’s--he’s an alien.”_ _

__“Right,” Kyle scoffed._ _

__“I’m not kidding,” Alex said. “You heard my dad ranting before he left us all to die.”_ _

__“Yeah, about Michael being a danger. I thought he was talking about Michael being gay.”_ _

__“Bisexual.” Alex corrected Kyle before Michael could. “And no, that wasn’t his problem with Michael.”_ _

__Kyle turned to glare at Michael, as if his origin was a personal affront. “I’m supposed to believe you’re an alien too?” Michael didn’t see any point in denying it. “And Isobel? She’s Max’s sister. Is she an alien? Are their parents? Do I know anyone who isn’t an alien?”_ _

__The panic inside Michael swelled up into a wave, and he fought against its pull. “We don’t have time to go into this. Jesse Manes thinks he’s killed us, and I don’t know what the hell he’s going to do when he finds out he failed. The only chance we have is if you keep our secret.”_ _

__“Me?”_ _

__“You, Liz, Maria--all of you.”_ _

__“Please, Kyle.” Alex had been leaning heavily on Michael, but he straightened as he made his appeal. “We grew up with Max and Isobel. You know they’re not dangerous. And Michael’s important to me. I need him to be okay.”_ _

__Kyle stared at Alex, his forehead creased in a frown; then his gaze flicked around the room. Max and Isobel. Liz. Michael. Michael didn’t know Kyle well enough to read his reactions and had to prevent himself from--but there was nothing else he could do to convince Kyle. Alex loved him. He couldn’t make a better case for his own humanity than that._ _

__“Anyone alive in there?” The shout came from the lobby doors, one of which had been blown half-off its hinge. Michael could see figures through the gap._ _

__The room froze for a moment, though no one started screaming about aliens or miracles, which Michael hoped was a good sign._ _

__“Yes!” Kyle called back. “There are nine of us in here! One person unconscious, no other major injuries.”_ _

__The firefighters had to use an axe to clear the sagging door before they could open the other one. Right behind the first two firefighters that strode in came two paramedics carrying a stretcher between them. Kyle trotted up to meet them and led them to Dorsey._ _

__“You think he’ll...” Michael didn’t think he needed to fill in the rest._ _

__“Maybe,” Alex said helplessly. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I could keep you safe.” His face twisted briefly before he covered by looking down at his crutch. Michael saw the exhaustion weighing on him, like sleeplessness lay heavy on Michael._ _

__“Out of the way, please!” The paramedics came through, Dorsey loaded on the stretcher. Kyle followed them, towing Liz by a hand on her arm, though she continued arguing as they passed Michael._ _

__“I’m fine, I don’t need--”_ _

__Kyle didn’t slow down at all. “I don’t care how fine you feel, I’m going to check your vitals and make sure you’re okay.”_ _

__“Stop arguing with him,” Rosa added. “Or Maria and I will hold you down while they shine a bright light in your eyes.”_ _

__“Let’s get the hell out of here.” Michael took as much of Alex’s weight as Alex would allow and slowly guided him toward the lobby doors._ _

__*_ _

__Pandemonium reigned outside the UFO Emporium. Michael couldn’t see at first for the blaze of flashing lights. Fire, police, two ambulances--no, three. He watched as the paramedics loaded Dorsey into the back of one while several sheriff’s deputies enforced a cordon on the opposite side of the street._ _

__“Kyle, thank god.” Sheriff Valenti embraced her son, who stood next to the ambulance where more paramedics were checking Liz over while Maria and Rosa hovered._ _

__“We need to call Mom and Dad in Scottsdale,” Max said to Isobel, his hand on her elbow as he moved a few steps away for privacy. Michael followed, supporting Alex. “They’re going to hear about this soon, if they haven’t already.”_ _

__“Great,” Isobel moaned. “I can’t wait to soothe Mom’s ruffled nerves.”_ _

__Max held Isobel still while he gently worked a piece of plaster from her hair. “We did almost die.”_ _

__“She doesn’t have to know that!”_ _

__“You almost died,” Michael repeated. It had happened twenty minutes ago and he’d almost forgotten about it in the chaos of Liz’s resurrection. “Because of me.”_ _

__“Because of my dad,” Alex insisted._ _

__“I told you all to leave. Why wouldn’t you leave?” Helpless anger surged through Michael, making his hands shake and his vision blur._ _

__Still leaning on Michael, Alex wrapped his arm around Michael’s waist. This close, he smelled like smoke instead of _Alex_ , and it made Michael’s stomach churn. “You know why.”_ _

__“No,” Michael said, shaking his head. “We only made it out thanks to dumb fucking luck! Liz _died_!” He retained enough control to whisper those words instead of screaming, but they clamored inside his head. What if Alex had died? What if Max had, with no one to resurrect him?_ _

__“This isn’t complicated,” Isobel snapped, moving close enough for him to see the dried blood and dirt on her arms. “We’re not letting you go. Never again. I thought you understood that by now, but I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe it.”_ _

__“You can’t,” he said. He heard, and he understood, but actually letting it sink in--he couldn’t do it. He would mess up, accidentally or on purpose, and they would leave, and everyone would know that he wasn’t worth the pain or the stress, not any of it. “Alex, look, you can release me--” Alex’s attention had strayed to the crowd. “Fuck, Alex, at least pay attention while I’m yelling at you.”_ _

__“It’s...Flint. That’s Flint!”_ _

__“What? Where?” Michael followed Alex’s gaze. Isobel and Max turned with him._ _

__Flint bowled through the last knot of bystanders and charged the ambulance nearest, holding a handgun, arms straight out and hands steady. A man filled the open door of the ambulance, and in the split second that Michael recognized him, Flint planted himself steps away, steadfast as he fired into Jesse Manes over and over until the gun clicked, empty._ _

__In the shocked silence, Flint stood over Jesse’s body and said, “I won’t let you use me like you used Alex.”_ _

*

__Michael fixated on how weird it was, being at the hospital but in a different department, and for a reason besides Alex’s medical appointments._ _

__Once offloaded from the ambulance into the same ER exam room, Michael’s arm was cleaned and wrapped, and Alex accepted the briefest consult about his leg, insisting he’d wait until Monday when he could talk to his specialist. Michael surveyed the swollen, red weal where Alex’s residual limb had been kicked hard, repeatedly, and in as pointed a voice as he could manage, requested an ice pack, taking it from the nurse even as Alex pulled up his pants and signed himself out. In the ER waiting area, Michael raised the leg rest of the hospital wheelchair and placed the ice pack where it would do the most good. Alex said nothing._ _

__He had said little since the shooting._ _

__After Sheriff Valenti had taken Flint Manes into custody, she’d leveled a calculating look at Alex. She was a hard woman, Michael could see, but she instructed Michael, “Tell the EMTs he’s injured and have them take him to the hospital.”_ _

__“I have to find out what happens to Flint,” Alex argued._ _

__“Why Flint did what he did--my team and I, we'll figure it out. The FBI will be here soon, and they can damn well wait their turn for your statements.” Her voice gentled. “The coroner is on the way, too. Go. I’m not making a request. You don’t need to see any more of this.” She turned to Michael and, all business, ordered, “Companion, get your Patron out of here.”_ _

__Alex protested and Michael overrode him. “You heard the sheriff. It’s not optional.” Angry, Alex tried to stalk off, but his right leg began to buckle. Michael caught him and covered the save with his telekinesis. He was finished letting Alex ignore his pain._ _

__“Nope, we’re going now.” He’d stared at Alex, inviting him to test his resolve. Alex, for once, had acquiesced silently, saving Michael from having to carry him to the ambulance._ _

__Now released by the ER doctors, they joined the others in the lobby, waiting for word on Liz. After being cleared by Sheriff Valenti, Kyle and the Ortecho sisters had piled into Max’s car, Isobel and Maria in Maria’s, and they drove to the hospital, where Kyle had ushered Liz and Rosa to a room, unwilling to release Liz until he proved beyond doubt that she was, indeed, alive. Max paced relentlessly, crowding the small floorspace and ignoring Isobel’s attempts to distract him._ _

__Michael believed Liz was okay--he hoped she was okay--but he couldn’t stop flicking through the horrors of the evening. The roar of a bomb crushing him to the floor; kneeling in the dark, handcuffed to a pipe; Chueca in formalwear, brandishing a machine gun; Liz’s eyes opening like a doll’s as her waxy skin pinked up._ _

__Michael was incapable of ignoring Alex’s silent distress, but the image he returned to was everyone’s gaping shock when Max laid his hand on Liz and raised the dead. They saw. Rosa, Maria, and Kyle knew. The humans, they _knew_. With Max taking up all of the pacing room, Michael could only sit next to Alex. To stay calm he assessed Alex’s needs, because taking care of Alex was the only thing he had any control over at the moment, and he bought a packet of trail mix from a vending machine down the hall._ _

__“You should eat.”_ _

__“You should shut the hell up.”_ _

__“Alex,” Maria admonished. She had settled next to Alex as soon as Michael rolled him into the waiting area, saying nothing but resting her hand on his forearm. Her expression softened as she repeated his name. Alex turned his face away, grim, looking up at nothing to drain any tears before they spilled. Michael recognized the move. He hadn’t needed it in years. He might tonight._ _

__After a moment, Alex took the package from Michael’s hand. “Is there a soda machine?”_ _

__“Yeah, what do you want?”_ _

__“Whatever. Sprite.” He met Michael’s gaze. “Thanks.”_ _

__As Michael returned and settled back in his chair, the doors to the ER opened._ _

__“Liz!” Max rushed to meet Liz as she and Rosa returned to the waiting room. “Are you okay?”_ _

__“She’s fine,” Kyle confirmed, following the sisters. He’d found a white coat and stethoscope. “Perfectly healthy, no sign of any...aftereffects.”_ _

__“Oh, thank god.” Maria sprang out of her chair to wrap Liz in a hug. Rosa joined in from the other side, the two of them enveloping her until she squeaked from the pressure. Once released, she turned to Max, who hovered next to her like he wanted to touch her but was unsure of his welcome._ _

__“Rosa explained what you did,” said Liz. “A couple of times, actually, because I didn’t believe her the first time, and I’m not sure I will believe it until I see for myself--” Liz sensed Max tensing next to her and shot a quick look at Isobel and Michael._ _

__Maria poked Liz’s arm and glanced around. “Are you sure you want to bring up that stuff? This isn’t the best place to talk about...you know.”_ _

__“No, it really, really isn’t,” Kyle agreed, nodding toward the woman stationed at the intake window._ _

__“You’re right. But that’s not important right now. I just--” She focused all her attention on Max. “Thank you. Protecting your secret is nothing. Whatever I can do for you, I will.”_ _

__“You saved my sister. Count me in. All of you,” Rosa added. “Even you, Izzy.”_ _

__“Don’t call me Izzy.” Isobel tried for haughty, but she smiled like she couldn’t help herself. The rush of relief would have made Michael’s knees weak if he was standing. Next to him, Alex released a slow, measured breath that Michael had only heard after a difficult exercise._ _

__For a moment, everything was okay. Liz and Rosa had pledged silence for their gratitude. Maria understood the need for secrecy. Kyle appeared willing to protect it._ _

__And Jesse Manes was dead. He’d never hurt Alex again._ _

__Maybe their secret was safe. Maybe they were all finally safe._ _


	24. Chapter 24

On Saturday at noon, Dane Wilson, representative for Solon Companion Company, hand-delivered paperwork exonerating Michael from the false accusation filed against him. “We can put this unpleasantness behind us and resume a happy normal.” 

Alex accepted the papers but did not thank the man. Distantly he found the entire interaction sordid but couldn’t muster enough disgust to care.

Two FBI agents paid a visit to the cabin an hour later to get statements from Alex and Michael. Flint had shot Jesse in front of dozens of witnesses, dropped his weapon, and surrendered to Sheriff Valent before he confessed to the shooting and only the shooting, so there was little to add, but Alex’s statement about the events at the gala took an hour of rehearsed omissions. He played the grieving son card and hoped it would cover his wooden delivery. One of the many clauses of the Companion contract finally worked in their favor: a Patron could be present when their Companion was questioned by law enforcement. Pushed for details about the bombing, Michael gave little away. “He said I was a bad influence on his son, made some homophobic comments, and then strapped a bomb on me. I kind of lost the thread after that.” 

The FBI took statements from everyone else with varying success. According to Maria, Rosa told them to fuck off and Kyle stonewalled with doctor-patient privilege; the rest gave bare-bones accounts that played up Jesse’s bigotry and left out all mention of Liz’s miraculous recovery under Max’s glowing hand. Michael stopped clenching his jaw a little less with every report from the grapevine. 

Mostly they all waited for another shoe to drop--and no one knew how many shoes were in play. Meanwhile, Alex was ordered off his feet by the doctor, who prescribed no prosthesis use until okayed by the specialist in Albuquerque. It would have been a good excuse to correct his sleep deficit, if he could actually sleep at night.

The calm helped, imperfect as it was, because Alex felt distant but not wrecked. Even down to one leg again, he was physically functional with Michael’s help. And he did rest his body at least, drowsing on the couch in the afternoons or lolling in bed late into the mornings, screwing around on his phone. Screwing around with Michael. Michael brushed off near-death as if nothing happened, but he maintained a taut-wire energy about him, as if ready for anything. 

This thing between Alex and Michael--the contract, the sex, the hours on the road to Albuquerque, the meals together and facing mortal danger--whatever it was remained undefined, but it was no longer invisible. 

They slept in Alex’s bed every night. Michael touched him like a boyfriend, and Alex let him, even in public. And on another torpid summer afternoon, when Michael stretched out on the couch and laid his head on Alex’s good leg nearly two weeks after the gala, Alex was charmed by the intimacy. He settled one hand in Michael’s hair and continued scrolling through notifications on his phone with the other as tension bled out of them both. 

A call lit up Alex’s phone. He answered it to stop the ringing more than he wanted to speak with the person on the other end. Senator Dorsey’s personal assistant introduced herself and said, “Please hold for the senator.” Apparently the assistant was at the senator’s side because after a fumble, Dorsey himself came on the line and, with polished concern, asked, “Alex, how are you holding up? Well, I hope.” 

Alex was using crutches and a wheelchair full-time while the bruised muscle in his right thigh healed. PTSD reminded him hourly some days that he couldn’t remain numb to Flint’s murder of their father. Or the agonizing moment when he ripped the wire from the bomb strapped to Michael. Or the bomb blast itself. Or how the only thing he could remember his father saying was _Well son, I didn’t expect you to get on the damn humvee_ and the sense of drowning that came with it. 

But he had Michael with him at the cabin and Maria texting him throughout the day. Greg surprised him by showing up to face the squall of media coverage that surrounded the Manes family scandal. “The school year’s over and the senior center can do without me for a few days.” He fielded calls from reporters and chased off the few who came to the cabin. At the memorial service, he kept the peace in the face of Clay’s unexpected animosity for the rest of the family. Greg accepted Michael with low-key bro teasing and he had assumed from the start that the bunkhouse would be free to use. His simple acceptance of Michael’s place in Alex’s life eased the bone-deep suppression of his identity, which left him feeling--

“Fine, sir,” said Alex. “I’m fine.” 

“And your brother?” 

“As well as can be expected.” Flint was at Chaves County Detention Center, being assessed for mental fitness while awaiting trial. Greg encouraged Alex to visit. Alex would. Maybe by the time he could use his prosthesis again he might be able to tell if he was angry or relieved that Flint emptied a full magazine into their father’s chest. 

“What about the press?” 

“It’s calmed down.” 

“Good, good, good. I’m glad things are working out. I have a question for you, son.” 

“I--yes, sir.” Alex suppressed his knee-jerk reaction to Dorsey’s casual use of the word _son_. Michael nudged at his hand, and he resumed the lazy stroke of his thumb over Michael’s temple.

“I need someone I can trust to secure the Project in Roswell.” There was no question to answer, so Alex remained quiet. Dorsey said, “There are details to hammer out, of course, though not as many as you’d think, considering. This isn’t a standard opportunity, but it is an honor.” 

Into the pause Dorsey let dangle, Alex asked, “What honor is that?” 

“You’ve seen some of what we do. Few have. And there are more wonders and opportunities that you haven’t seen yet.” 

The location camouflaged as an abandoned prison came to mind, with its littered grounds and sense of dusty vacancy--except when he got close. The woman, Lucia Chueca, and the concealed high tech security were there for a reason. 

“Sir, let me remind you how unsecure your phone is.” 

Dorsey chuckled. “Message received, Captain. But this is a family tradition for you, going back to your great-grandfather. I don’t think I have to spell things out for you, of all people.” 

“Yes, sir, you do have to spell things out to me,” Alex said coolly. “And if you want an answer, you’ll have to ask me a question first. In person.”

“This isn’t like you, playing coy. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” 

“I’m not playing,” Alex replied, still calm, still caressing Michael. “I’m just enjoying the company of my Companion. After the false abuse charge, we’re trying to decide if we should pursue an investigation into contract fraud with the Program. I’m sure Solon Companion Company takes pride in its regulatory compliance.” 

“Come see me, then,” Dorsey said, “and I will ask you a question.” Dorsey handed Alex off to his assistant, who arranged an appointment on Friday at noon. Alex dutifully entered it on his phone calendar. “This will be at the senator’s home,” she said, and rattled off the address before ending the call. 

“Hot date?” said Michael.

“How much did you hear?” 

Michael rolled onto his back, his head still pillowed on Alex’s lap. Alex rested his hand on Michael’s chest. “All of it. The guy has serious cell phone voice.” 

“So you know what he’s asking.” 

“Do you want it?” Michael was a man of strong opinions that he kept close, and he could ask a question with complete neutrality when Alex knew the answer meant a great deal to him. In this case, Alex recognized Michael’s calm delivery was a gift. Alex could answer honestly, from his own needs.

“How else can I keep you safe?” 

“Destroy the files. Blow it up.” 

“It’s not that simple and you know it. The bunker is only one location. There’s at least one more.” 

“The prison,” Michael said. 

Alex had given him a bare-bones account of the days they’d spent apart, including his drive-by of the location named Caulfield. “I still don’t know what’s in there...” 

“But it’s probably important,” Michael finished. 

“I found an inventory list for debris from the crash stored at Caulfield. I still don’t know exactly what it means, but obviously there’s more to the project than one abandoned base.” 

“Debris?” Michael sat up. He put his feet on the floor and some distance between them. “Just debris? What else do they have? I mean, if we survived, then maybe some other stuff survived.” 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Controls, or alien tech or, hell, luggage. They were heading somewhere before the crash. They had stuff. I want to see it. I want to see all of it.” 

“I don’t know if,” Alex said, then changed tracks. “I’m not sure how to make that happen.” 

“Sounds like you’re about to be handed keys to the front door. We can just walk in.” 

“Maybe, but maybe not.” Alex was thinking about Jesse, his actions, Flint’s actions, and how Dorsey had not mentioned Lucia Chueca. What actions had he taken to deal with the breach in security? “The FBI is still following you around. I don’t want to risk it.” 

“What, being seen with a criminal?” said Michael, prickly. 

“I don’t want anyone to have a reason to lock you up again!” 

Michael’s lips pressed together in a thin line before his shoulders lowered and his expression loosened. “Ohhh, so this is one of those times where you act like a dick, but what you’re trying to say is that you want me around.” 

“I--” Alex shut his mouth. He reconsidered the sarcasm he’d almost let loose and dialed it back. “Yes. I actually do want you around, which means avoiding doing shit that could get you arrested.” 

“So we meet with the senator. See what he has to say.”

“It’s unlikely he’s going to actually give me keys to the front door, but I’ll have more access than I have now.” 

“And me. I’m coming along.” 

“I don’t know…” Alex wanted Michael at his side, but he didn’t know how to keep him there when he officially entered Project Shepherd. 

“Bring me to the meeting. He likes Companions. He won’t mess with me.” 

Alex quashed the impulse to push back again because realistically, there was no better venue than Senator Dorsey’s mansion to show up with a beautiful Companion on his arm. 

*

The senator’s mansion gave Michael hives as he and Alex were ushered to a dark-paneled office. There was a painting of a beautiful young woman surrounded by hunting dogs on the wall. A set of golf clubs was propped in the corner. Michael was disappointed he couldn’t find a cut crystal decanter of whisky. 

“I’m so sorry about your dad, Alex. He was obviously far more troubled than I ever knew, but he was your father,” said Senator Dorsey, opening the meeting. “There is no loss for a son like his father’s death, and you have my deepest condolences.” 

Michael and Alex had barely sat down in the leather-upholstered captain’s chairs in front of Dorsey’s massive desk and already Michael wanted to punch him. What did this entitled asshole know about Alex’s relationship with his father? How much did he know about Jesse Manes in the first place? Because he didn’t know shit about Alex.

“I’ve known your father since before you were born. He served his country well doing a difficult and thankless job. The complications at the end of his life don’t negate that service.”

“On the phone you said have a question for me.”

“I do.” Dorsey opened a lower desk drawer and set a file folder on the gleaming acre of desk between them. He laid his hand on it and glanced at Michael before he regarded Alex keenly. “If you could have your Companion step outside, we can get to the particulars.”

“No, I need him here for this.”

“Son, in spite of your unorthodox initiation to the project, you do understand the requirements of a Top Secret posting.”

“I do, but what you haven’t taken into account is that during my...unorthodox initiation, Michael was with me. I know what Project Shepherd deals with. So does Michael.”

Dorsey drew the file back a scant inch, and Michael thought he was about to deny Alex the offer, but Michael caught the man’s eye and realized he’d just flinched.

“The ’47 crash, the technology, the assets. We saw the film and photos of alien invaders and the aftermath of the crash,” Alex said.

“You do realize I could have you both locked away where no one could find you.”

Michael flinched and couldn’t manage to hide it at all. He continued to sit and not sprint out of the room, but it was a near thing. 

“Why throw away a resource you need?” argued Alex. “We’ve both known about Project Shepherd for months and kept it secret, because you’re right: I do know the requirements of a Top Secret posting. I also know that my Companion falls under my responsibility in all legal matters. The fine print might be subject to some interpretation regarding military law, but is it in your best interest to test it?”

Dorsey’s mouth pursed. The bags under his eyes were still shadowed from the head trauma he’d suffered in the blast. His casual clothes and a general air of fatigue and recuperation clung to him. He was an old man getting older. 

Alex pressed his argument further. “You were there, sir, at the gala. Project Shepherd is Michael’s business because my father made it his business when he tried to frame Michael as an alien terrorist. In the end, he really believed it.” 

Dorsey’s expression remained troubled. “There was so much...confusion. I don’t understand what cause would he have to--to believe this?”

Michael darted a glance at Alex. Michael had been handcuffed to a pipe for most of the gala, and after he broke free from Chueca, he hadn’t processed much of Jesse’s ranting, too distracted by the bomb and its threat to his family, to Alex. But the senator had been there. He’d had a front-row seat--and apparently Dorsey didn’t remember everything about the gala and what happened in the ballroom after. Maybe Michael could be optimistic, just a little, but he wasn’t the one calling the shots. It was up to Alex to spin this mess. 

“I have no idea why he suspected Michael of being an alien,” Alex asserted. “Do you have practical information to explain why he’d think that? Could aliens pass as human? Was there even a way to tell the difference?” 

“Yes, there are physiological differences. Their average body temperature is higher. Their metabolic system is different. A quick look at a blood sample under a microscope would alert any doctor that such an individual was extraordinary, even if he didn’t know about the aliens who landed here in ’47. Did your father perform any of these tests on your Michael?” 

“I don’t know how my father characterized our relationship to you, but I was never particularly close to him. He didn’t approve of my private life, he…he made it very clear that he didn’t approve of me because I’m gay. I wasn’t about to let him have access to my Companion.” 

“Ah.” Dorsey leaned back in his chair. “I was under the impression that you had declined to make use of the Intimacy Clause.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s not required to disclose that,” Michael said, both angry at Dorsey and hopeful that he was supporting whatever gambit Alex was playing, “and I know for damn sure that you shouldn’t know the details of his contract with me.”

“That would be an assumption, and it would be wrong. I’m the Sponsor of this contract, and as such, I _do_ have access to all the details.”

“Does any of that matter? The question is if my father had evidence to believe Michael was actually an alien, and the answer is no.”

“No,” Dorsey echoed, somber. “It’s a testament to his frame of mind that he thought a Companion vetted through Solon could possibly be an alien threat.” Resolution firmed his brow. He flipped open the file and turned a single page document around before he slid it to Alex. “I want you to complete the work your great-grandfather started and head the shut-down of Project Shepherd. Will you do it?”

Alex’s eyes flicked back and forth, reading. He didn’t need long to finish it. He glanced at Michael, a quick, canny look before he laid the paper on the desk.

“Do you have a pen?” 

Dorsey handed him a very nice pen, and Alex signed.

*

Once they were in Alex’s car, Michael at the wheel and headed home, Michael waited for Alex to tell him about the paper he’d signed, but Alex was absorbed by the scenery, that pained little frown between his brows. Michael gave it a few minutes before he lost patience. “So? What’d he give you?” 

Alex returned from his reverie, and without inflection said, “All of it.” 

“All of it?” 

“No limits. No wonder my father fought so hard to keep the command.” 

“Shouldn't you be more happy about that? You okay?” 

“So I take over,” Alex said, still subdued. “Maybe I can do some good. Or maybe undo whatever fuckery my father got up to. Make amends or whatever.” 

“Amends? What the fuck for?” 

“The Manes family tradition.”

“Alex...” 

“You were there. You heard him. My great-grandfather started Project Shepherd.” Alex smiled grimly. “The senator just made me part of the Manes family business of exploiting aliens since 1947.”

“That’s not you.”

“But it was my dad. And now...it’s up to me to start making it right.” 

“No.” Michael was resolute. “That’s not on you.” 

“I don’t mean--” 

“What the hell don’t you mean?” Michael’s face heated. He should pull over, find a place to park and hash this out, but he sensed if he stopped now, Alex would shut him down, and he wasn’t about to let this go. “Alex, he held a gun to your head!” 

“Yeah, well, he fucked with all of us.” He caught Michael’s eye. “I’m fine. You’re the one that had a bomb strapped to you for an entire day.” 

Fair point, but Michael found Alex’s distresses from that night harder to bear than his own.

“Yeah, speaking of that, why didn’t you get the fuck out when I told you?”

“Out of the ballroom?” 

“You, Isobel, Max--all of you!” 

“Are you still angry because we stayed?” Alex asked, suddenly indignant, and turned to face him. “Because that is such bullshit, and you know it.” 

“What?” Wrapped in his memory of how much he’d feared for them, he hadn’t expected Alex to go on the attack.

“Do you honestly think we’d do that? Walk away and let you die? Stop acting like you believe that shit--you’re not an idiot.” His quick anger flashed and faded. Calmer but no longer distant, he said, “Max and Isobel are practically your brother and sister. And I’m...you know what I am.” 

“Yeah," Michael whispered, staring ahead at the road. Alex hadn’t made any secret of how he felt, not for months. He sat with that thought as the high desert rolled by, as they headed south and home. 

"We are never going to leave you, Michael,” Alex said, his voice steady with the simple truth. “You'll have to go. And I don't think you want to."

He had to admit it--to himself, at least, since Alex obviously knew.

He thought he’d been living well enough in his solitude. Before the contract and Alex, he hadn’t understood what he was missing. He’d spent the better part of a year living with someone who didn’t just tolerate him, but accepted him. He’d made friends who had his back. He’d found his family.

Fuck the military and Project Shepherd; fuck the government and the bigots. Michael would rather be in danger in Roswell than alone anywhere else.

“No. I don't want to leave,” Michael said, dizzy with the realization. “I want to stay." 

“So stay," Alex said. "Contract or no contract, or whatever happens with Project Shepherd, just...stay."

It didn’t seem so frightening anymore, the prospect of having and the fear of losing. Not when the rewards were so great.

"Well, now that you mention it,” he drawled, “I have to stay with your sorry ass.” He rested his palm on Alex’s thigh and let its warmth soak into his skin. “It's my job." 

* * *

**Foster Ranch, July 22, 2018**

The site looked no different than other random rocky outcrops surrounded by scrub brush and desert grass. 

"Are you sure?" asked Max. 

"The coordinates are precise," Alex replied, reading the numbers from the document on his phone. "The map of the debris field spreads over several square miles, but this is where the intact body of the ship landed and first contact occurred."

It was Michael who had asked to meet at the crash site. The others had agreed during a meeting that Maria called at the Wild Pony when Alex and Michael stopped by on a quiet Monday afternoon. “I didn’t dare ask this over the phone,” Maria had said as she joined Alex and Michael in a booth. With a long, searching look, she’d asked Alex, “So, how long did you know? About him? About the Evans?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I bet it is,” Kyle Valenti had agreed, stepping up to sit next to Maria. 

“What is this, an intervention?” Michael had stretched his arm along the back of the seat behind Alex. His fingertips brushed the cap of Alex’s shoulder. “Because if it is, I need tequila.” 

Rosa and Liz showed up shortly after, Max and Isobel behind them. Those who hadn’t known about the aliens wanted explanations, and everyone at the table knew they needed more privacy than a bar to get them. 

“Come to my house,” Max had offered. “I think we owe you some answers.” 

“Not Max’s,” Michael had griped, and Rosa had challenged him: “Do you have a better place?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” 

His suggestion had met approval all around, and now, a week later, late on a Sunday afternoon, they stood near a rocky outcrop on Foster’s farm where it all started.

"How precise is precise?" asked Michael. 

Alex consulted the military-grade GPS, led Michael a few meters away from the group, and with a touch positioned him facing away from the rock outcrop. "Here is where the military and local law enforcement gathered." He pointed ahead. "The ship was ten meters away, about where that mesquite is." Michael and the twins looked where he indicated, alike in the intensity of their attention. "According to this first-hand account, debris from the wreck lay all around. It was glowing. The remnants of a parachute billowed over everything, obscuring the ship itself." 

Behind him, Maria and Kyle, Liz and Rosa were silent. Isobel and Max had given them the bare bones of their story. Michael didn’t add much, but he offered his opinion of Jesse Manes when Alex told them what he could about what happened on the night of the gala. Now they stood as witnesses while Alex read aloud. 

The report--author’s name redacted--supported the bleak facts of that night, the same as detailed in the military debrief, but whoever wrote it had imbued his own sense of wonder into the account. 

"A woman emerged," Alex continued to read aloud only those parts painting a picture of that night, cherry-picking phrases. Michael nodded at the GPS in Alex’s right hand and Alex handed it over. Michael navigated towards the mesquite tree. Isobel followed him, Max on her heels. Alex spoke louder. "They were surprised it was a woman. She wore white clothing. She raised her arms." 

Michael stopped before the tree. He looked at the ground, scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot. Isobel and Max joined him under the tree, and the others stepped forward, in line with Alex. The two little groups faced each other over the empty ground and the warming light of sunset between them. 

Flustered, Alex looked back at the document and continued to paraphrase, omitting the military jargon. "She said nothing, but in spite of her obvious nervousness, she smiled as if she were speaking, even though she never made a sound." 

"It was dark," said Michael. 

"The headlights of their vehicles lit the scene."

"She…touched the ground," said Michael. 

"Both palms flat and her fingers spread wide." 

Michael slowly crouched, still looking at Alex, until his hands touched the dirt. His head bowed. Isobel knelt next to him and rested her forehead against his temple as she rubbed his back. Max laid his hand gently on Michael’s shoulder. 

Alex stopped reading aloud. He knew the rest, and so did Michael. They had read the official report together. There was no need to give a voice to the violence of that night.

“They were only children when it happened,” murmured Maria. “That ship carried families.” 

“And the military thought the best thing to do was to hunt and kill them,” said Rosa. Her upper lip curled in disdain. “Good to know nothing changes.” 

“If they were all killed or captured, who put Max, Isobel, and Michael into pods and hid them in the desert?” wondered Liz.

Alex didn’t offer a reply. There were answers buried in the depths of Project Shepherd, waiting to be discovered, but this moment had to happen first. 

Isobel stood, and Michael climbed to his feet, Max’s hand still on his shoulder. Michael shrugged it off before he reached out his hand, fingers wide. A large rock that lay embedded in the desert between the two groups began to twist itself out of the dirt. Alex heard Maria gasp, and Kyle swore under his breath as the rock pulled free all at once to float along and settle gently at Michael’s feet. Isobel used her hands to pick up a much smaller rock and stack it on top before scouting for another. Max did the same. 

Alex tilted his head at the others standing with him. “C’mon,” he said. He approached the cairn, picking up several stones on the way, and placed them randomly on the structure. Liz and Rosa added pebbles and rocks, and Kyle heaved a respectable sized rock into place. Maria draped one of her bracelets amid the stones before they--the humans, thought Alex--withdrew. Alex met Michael’s wide open gaze, shiny with tears as he inhaled, shaky.

“Thank you,” said Max as they passed by. Isobel echoed him, subdued, her expression lined by grief but also gratitude. 

Isobel tucked her arm around Michael’s waist from one side and Max from the other, all three of them silent as more stones darted like hummingbirds into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nine months of writing, eleven Google Docs, a timeline spreadsheet with multiple tabs, many hours of research (Afghanistan deployments, bomb vests, New Mexico geography, recovery from lower-limb amputation, New Mexico's child welfare system, the location of Wal-Marts in Albuquerque, personal assistant contracts, code-breaking, the actual contents of the International UFO Museum, how to paint a mural on corrugated metal, how to untraceably send files over the internet, how you get nominated for the Air Force Cross, and 2018 nail polish trends), and finally two months of posting.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting. We enjoyed every emoji-laden moment of it.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Nestra on [Tumblr](https://changingthingslikeleaves.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/akaNestra), and [Dreamwidth](https://nestra.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> You can find grit kitty on her brand! new! [Tumblr](https://gritkitty.tumblr.com)


End file.
